


Stars in the Dark

by Aussi18



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, Dark Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Dark Robin Hood, Dubious Morality, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jealous Robin Hood, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, POV Robin Hood, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-08-14 13:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16493288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aussi18/pseuds/Aussi18
Summary: Dark OQ - AU Enchanted Forest with multiple liberties taken.After a chance encounter, Robin feels drawn to the mysterious and alluring Evil Queen. Can he help her achieve that which she seeks, or will she disappear before he can give them both the happy ending they deserve?





	1. Stars in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This story is complete and all chapters will be posted as quickly as possible - I will not leave you hanging.
> 
> Dark OQ - or at the very least, I'd classify them as "Chaotic Neutral" with dalliances to both the good and evil sides of the spectrum.
> 
> Character deaths do not apply to Robin, Regina, or Roland. 
> 
> Robin has a filthy mouth, a dirty mind, and sexy things are going to happen - if that's not your thing, turn back now.
> 
> AU Enchanted Forest where I kept what I liked and changed what I didn't. There was no First Curse. No mention of the Dark One. No Storybrook. 
> 
> A few lines of dialogue are shamelessly stolen from the script. I do not pretend to own those or take any credit for them, I just liked the way they fit. I make no money on this, it's all purely for fun. Please don't sue me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only in the darkness can you see the stars.
> 
> \--Martin Luther King Jr.


	2. The Introduction

 

 

Chapter 1 - The Introduction

 

 

He turns his back for a second. One second. And his boy has disappeared.

A wave of panic comes over Robin - he does not know this forest, he does not know what foul things reside within it.

Roland knows better than to wander off, knows that this place is dangerous and he must stay close to his papa.

Nevertheless, the boy is nowhere in sight.

Robin is loathe to call out to his son - drawing attention to himself in a place he is not familiar with has the potential to do much more harm than good. He drops his eyes to the forest floor, slick with moss and dead, wet foliage from the evening rain. He searches, searches for a disturbance in the undergrowth that might give away the direction that his son has gone, and finally, yes, he sees it - the small, barely noticeable tracks leading off to the south.

The boy can’t have gotten far but Robin follows with urgency, certain he can catch him before harm befalls him.

 

He is wrong.

 

He hears the scream - knows that scream - it is ingrained deep within his soul.

It is Roland. And he is _terrified_.

He’s sprinting now, racing and leaping through the forest like a frantic animal, using the trunks of trees to swing him sharply left and right as he follows the footsteps of his son.

 

He’s still screaming.

 

Robin is getting closer - can see a break in the trees ahead, a meadow, maybe? A lake? His bow is already in-hand, an arrow in the other, and his feet move faster - faster - he must get to his son.

He breaks from the cover of the trees and spots Roland across the sandy beach, shrieking and trying desperately to run, tiny legs pumping, as the gryphon dives at him.

Robin knows he can’t reach him in time, the beast is too close, almost on Roland now, so he attempts to draw the bow - his only option to save his son’s life - but the sand is loose under his feet, and he slides as he tries to stop, forcing him down on one knee to keep his balance.

There is a flash of dark movement in his periphery as Robin pulls the bow back - Roland is running towards someone, someone who is much closer, who is sprinting for Roland as hard as he is racing for them.

Robin gets a clear shot with the bow, just as the gryphon reaches the pair - the stranger leaping the last few steps and slamming Roland to the ground, covering him. The monster catches hold of the person, ripping and snapping at them, but they don’t let go, don’t stop covering his son for a second.

Robin lets the arrow fly.

It scours the beast through the back of the head, and it jerks forward quickly, up and over the top of the bodies in front of it - attempts to fly - wings stuttering awkwardly as the fatal wound disconnects the spine from the head, and then it falls from the sky.

The beast thrashes nearby for a few seconds, and Robin, poised with another arrow, lets it loose and puts an end to it.

 

And then he is running.

As he finally reaches his son, he skids to a stop not two feet from him and goes stock still - his jaw drops open, his heart accelerating in confusion.

It is a woman who lays atop his boy. Her long black cloak enveloping the two of them, cocooning them in safety, her dark hair has fallen forward and she has her face very close to Roland’s - is whispering to him, calming him, smiling softly as the boy’s tears start to subside. She strokes the side of Roland’s face, brushes his curls from his forehead, and he calms beneath her sweet touches, smiling back at her and bringing his little hands up to her face to brush her ebony locks back, mimicking her care.

Her voice raises, just a bit, still soft but loud enough now that Robin can hear her as she says, “There now, your papa is here, sweetheart.”

Roland’s eyes immediately light with joy and Robin clears his throat, ashamed that he has allowed his son to come to such danger, that it is someone else who has saved his boy from certain death.

“Thank you,” he gushes, dropping his bow and stepping into the pair - hitting his knees hard as the woman shifts back so she is kneeling, sitting back on her heels. Roland pops up excitedly, completely unharmed, and immediately throws his arms about Robin’s neck, asking him “Did you see, Papa? Did you see the big bird?”

“Yes, my boy, I saw it,” he admits, humiliated.

“It was so big, Papa!” Roland continues, barely pausing to let Robin reply, “And it was gonna eat me! But Rrr’gina saved me! Did you see her Papa? She saved me!”

Roland is chatting excitedly and waving his arms in his enthusiasm, pointing to the sky and then to ‘Regina’ and then back around to hug Robin’s neck. And Robin is so relieved that he is alive, so ecstatic that this day did not end in the loss of the only person he loves, that he can’t find it in him to scold his son. Later, when he is safe and snug in their tent, Robin will have a good sit down talk with Roland about running off, but for now, with his boy’s arms wrapped tightly around him, he closes his eyes and breathes.

 

And then it hits him.

 

_Regina._

But it can’t be. It can’t possibly - his eyes snap open, look directly at the woman kneeling next to him, take in the jewels encrusted on the sharp lapels and high collar of the royal blue jacket she wears beneath the elegant cloak - the necklace of black diamonds, the black lace of of her bodice and those thigh high boots over leather pants. His eyes end at last on her beautiful face, and - **fuck**.

 

Regina.

As in, Her Royal Highness, Queen Regina.

The “Evil” Queen.

 

She’s staring at him intently as he looks her over, as she watches the realization come over him, and she’s still, so perfectly still that he thinks she might be holding her breath.

“Thank you,” he says again, squeezing his son, “You have saved my son’s life.” He gives her his deepest, most sincere look of gratitude, looking deep into her eyes, and something in her stare softens a little.

“You should keep better watch over him,” she scolds, but it isn’t too unfriendly - as if she is giving him the expected response even though she knows, understands how children can be, how terrible things can happen in the blink of an eye.

Roland chooses this moment to break free of Robin’s hug, and he goes back to the queen - Robin’s heart stuttering with a flash of hesitation now that he knows who she is, knows of her devastating wrath - and Roland throws his little arms around her, kissing her cheek wetly and settling himself into her lap.

Robin sees her flinch, sees her grit her teeth even as she smiles softly to his son as he chats to her about his journey through the ‘‘Chanted Forest’, as he leans his head against her chest and plays with the bejeweled necklace there.

Robin is surprised by the actions of his son -  Roland never takes to people this quickly, especially women. His boy is typically cautious of strangers, has been taught to be wary. He has not been smitten with a woman since Marian.

A smear of red appears against the queen’s creamy skin as Roland fidgets with her necklace, and then Roland holds his hand up to them and says “Ew!” and Robin can see the dark blood coating his son’s palm.

“You’re injured,” Robin states the obvious, scooting forward quickly, reaching out to her. She flinches away from him, or she attempts to, but Roland is still planted in her lap and her movement is limited.

“May I,” he clears his throat, quite nervous, “May I assist you? It is truly the least I can do, milady,” he stutters.

Her dark eyes narrow, looking sharply at him, her mouth opening and he wonders if she is about to correct him, tell him “ _It’s Your Majesty_ ,” but she claps it shut almost immediately and her eyes flit around them, looking like she desperately wants to escape this conversation.

“I’m fine,” she says instead.

He finds it curious that she doesn’t correct him, but he’s more than willing to play along.

He looks hard at her, at the shoulder that he thinks was savaged by the beast, but he can’t see past her shredded cloak, the black hides the blood too well and he can’t assess how much damage has been done.

“Please,” he says, and he’s not really asking, just trying to buy time before she bolts. He has heard she has magic, and he doesn’t doubt she could disappear before his eyes if she so wanted. But he doesn’t know if she can heal herself, doesn’t really understand how magic works, and he’s good at this - at patching people up when they need, well, patching up.

She flexes the fingers of her right hand and it draws his eye, and he sees the red droplets running off her fingertips, drip-drip-dripping onto the white sand below. He brings his eyes back to hers, and he thinks she must be so strong to sit here with his son and pretend like her shoulder isn’t torn to shreds. It must be agonizing, and he is very, very impressed with her ability to keep up this charade.

She clenches her jaw, he sees the muscles jumping, her neck tightening, and she stares back at him, defiant, searching his eyes for something, something?

“Who are you?” she asks.

And he’s an arse, because he hasn’t even bothered to introduce himself, hasn’t bothered to make proper introductions at all, and the Locksley's would be so ashamed of his lack of manners.

“Forgive me - I am known as Robin Hood,” he replies, and he feels hesitant about telling her this, it is likely she knows his name, his crimes, but he thinks it better to be honest than risk getting caught in a lie.

“The Thief,” she says, raising one eyebrow and he feels like she’s looking right through him.

“That would depend on one’s definition of the word, I’m afraid,” he responds automatically, and she unexpectedly barks out a laugh, amusement lighting up her chocolate eyes for an instant.

“And are you a healer, too?” she asks, looking him over, looking at what, when compared to her, is barely more than a peasant in rags.

“Unfortunately, yes, milady. I have had many an opportunity to mend a wound, mine or otherwise. I can at least get the bleeding to stop, get the wound cleaned up until you can have it properly seen to.” He feels like he’s babbling, shuts his mouth quickly and looks at his son as a distraction. Christ, she’s beautiful.

Roland suddenly hops off her lap, standing and looking toward the felled beast several yards away. “Can I go see it, Papa?” he asks, and Robin directs his gaze to the monster, knows his arrows were true - the beast draws no breath. “Yes, but rinse your hands first, and be careful, son, like we’ve talked about, yeah?” Roland nods solemnly and patters over to the edge of the water to wash his hands, before slowly creeping up to the carcass.

Robin looks back to the queen, and she is attempting to stand. He gets up quickly, offering her assistance that she refuses even though he sees the pain etched into the lines of her eyes, a vein in her forehead puffing up just a little. But she makes it up, straightens her spine and cracks her neck, shrugs the offended shoulder, and a terrible, painful sound escapes her throat, though she tries valiantly to quell it. She tries to raise her right hand and fails.

She won’t look at him now, her brow furrowed and her burning, angry gaze directed off toward the forest, both hands flexing, twitching weirdly, and he wishes she would let him help - she has already done so much for him, and he wants to make her whole again. He looks to her hand, and he thinks the blood is running faster now, not just dripping but making a half-hearted stream down the back of her hand and off the tips of her beautifully manicured fingernails.

“Please,” he repeats. And then Roland is there next to him, gazing up at the queen with his biggest puppy dog eyes, and when he says “Please, ‘Gina?” her gaze falls to the boy and he watches her melt for him. She starts to nod, to agree, and then Robin sees how pale she has gone, reaches out and catches her just as consciousness leaves her body.


	3. The Wound

 

 

Chapter Two - The Wound 

  


Robin carries the queen away from the lake and into the shelter of the forest. Even with the gryphon dead it is unlikely that another beast is nearby, but he prefers the camouflage of the trees to make camp in. It is safer - he knows the many sounds of a forest and can tell when it is the wind snapping a branch or a footfall.

As they walk, the blood continues to stream down her arm and he worries about the amount she has lost. It is raining again and he curses the sky for being so unforgiving.

She looks more pale now than ever.

He doesn’t know where she was headed when she found Roland, and he doesn’t want to take her too far off her path, but he knows that the way he came is safe - there are no man-made trails through the forest there, and it is thick with underbrush, too difficult to traverse for the majority of men. So in the interest of keeping them all safe, he carries her several hundred yards back the way he came, pitching the tent quickly and starting a warm fire within it. Her body feels cool against his touch.

 

He doesn’t have anything soft to lay her on, so he resigns himself to making due with the pack they have. He gets out some cheese and meat for Roland’s dinner, quickly makes up the boy’s little bed of blankets, then turns his full attention to the unconscious queen.

He feels a bit like a lecher when he un-clasps her cloak, and he thinks she would probably agree, but he has to take it off to see how much damage he’s dealing with. Half of it is soaked with her blood anyway, he will have to wash it before it is useful again.

He sets the cloak off to the side, then starts to unbutton the royal blue riding coat she is wearing underneath. The fabric is beautiful, looks beautiful on her, but the buttons start just below her breasts and he tries, _tries and fails_ , to not look too much her full mounds as he completes the task. It’s been too long since Marian, he excuses for himself, and Christ, just _look_ at the woman before him. He is only a man, after all - and he is apparently quite weak for her.

It takes him a minute to get the jacket off, her one good arm comes free easily but the wounded shoulder has become sticky and the fabric drags against her skin as he gently peels it off. He turns and places it with the cloak, he’ll take care of those once he’s done tending to her, and when he turns back, his breath catches.

She’s wearing just that lacy black corset, leather pants and thigh high boots, shoulders bare, a wide leather bracelet and the beautiful black necklace stark against her white skin and _fuck_. Her thick black hair is splayed out and her deep red lips slightly parted and he tries to stop it, knows he’s such prick for it, but his cock twitches at the sight.

 

And then he sees the damage.

 

_Bloody hell._

It is a wonder she lasted as long as she did - he cannot believe she wasn’t screaming in agony when he came upon them. Tough as hell, she must be.

There are two tears in her skin - deep, wide claw marks - one stretching from the bottom of her right shoulder blade to the top, the other wrapping over her shoulder and down her chest to the top of her right breast. The latter is deep, concerningly deep - is still bleeding and when he blots it with clean bandages he can see how it has torn through several layers of muscle, damn near to the bone at her clavicle. His son would not have survived these wounds. By God she’s strong. And brave.

“Papa?” Roland interrupts his thoughts from his little nest, “Is ‘Gina gonna be OK?” his son’s worried eyes land on the brutal red slashes and he bites his lower lip.

“Yes, my boy, I’m going to patch her up and she’ll be just fine come morning,” Robin replies, though he is not positive she will be able to wake in the morning - the damage is immense. Roland nods his head, his face serious, and he settles back down and falls asleep.

Robin gets to work then, takes out the little kit he keeps with him for just such an emergency and pulls out several bandages, horsehair, a needle, a little jar of honey, one of Turmeric paste, and one of adhesive. Lastly, he reaches into his knap and removes a small flask - he’s averse to pouring the alcohol on her wounds - it will sting and he does not wish to cause her pain, does not want her to waken from it, but he knows he must - there’s no knowing what kind of debris the damned gryphon scraped into her flesh when it cut her open.

He wants to start with the cut on her back first, it is less severe and he feels confident that he can bandage it quickly. He scoots in behind her, propping her upper body against his chest, his legs parallel to hers, and Jesus, her hair smells amazing, like fresh honeycrisp apples. She groans a little, discomforted and it snaps him back to reality.  He holds a cloth to her back to catch the excess alcohol, and then he pours.

He braces for impact - fully expecting her to jerk and jump against him, but she doesn’t regain consciousness, and thank god for that. He inspects the wound, ensures it is clean, carefully pats it dry and then smoothes a thick coating of honey into it. He paints the edges of her bandages with the adhesive and presses softly around the wound, covering it entirely, the adhesive clinging to her skin and securing the bandage in place.

One wound patched, he turns his focus to the worse of the two. He slides out from behind her, lays her gently down and cushions her head with a blanket, and again he can’t help but feel in awe of this amazing, beautiful woman who saved his son. She turns her face to him as she settles a little, her shoulder twitching with pain and inflammation and he again has that unwanted rush of desire - she looks so soft, so sweet here, he wishes he could touch her face, wishes his touch was welcome.

He shakes his head to clear his idiotic, lust-filled brain - what is _wrong_ with him?! - and gets back to the task before him. He rinses the wound with water, clearing away the dirt, pooled blood, and thick clots that are trying to form. Gooseflesh breaks across her skin, covering her shoulder and neck. He follows the water rinse immediately with the alcohol, and suddenly she surges up, mouth opening in a silent scream, eyes wide and panicked, and he pushes her back down, one hand going to her mouth to help silence her, as her right hand tries to raise and twitches in several strange motions. Her charcoal lined eyes fill with pain, a few tears streaming out of them, and her left hand grasps at the wrist of his hand covering her mouth.

He hears himself whispering frantically to her, _I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry-I’m-so-so-sorry, love,_ and he’s pleading with her, rushing to explain what’s happening, what he’s doing as he eases up on her mouth.

Her pulse is jumping quickly at her neck, fresh beads of sweat coating her brow, but her wild eyes have calmed just a bit as his hand finally comes up off her. She takes in a deep shaking breath through her mouth, her lipstick smeared from his hand, and her jaw is tight and strained in her pain.

“The wound is too deep to leave open,” he says softly, bringing her focus to him. “I must sew it.”

She drops her head back to the blankets, and she looks, humiliated, he thinks. He feels defensive of her, for her, can’t stop the words from spilling from his mouth as he comforts her.

“Your wounds are ghastly, milady - the beast would surely have killed my son, would have easily killed any number of men. I have never in my life met someone as brave, as strong as you.”

She does something close to an eyeroll at him, looking away, but the humiliation is gone from her features, and he breathes a little easier that he could at least give her that. Still looking at the ceiling, she clears her throat and says, “Do it.”

A little rush of pride pushes through him, and he knows he has no right to it - he doesn’t know this woman at all but he is still so proud of her courage.

He sets to work, threading the horsehair through the needle, and she watches him as he prepares, her dark eyes oddly calm and her body unnaturally still, save for the unintentional twitching around her laceration.

“You’re quite good with a bow,” she says quietly.

He smiles a little, yes - he is. Robin’s not an arrogant bloke but this he knows. He’s the best.

“Who taught you?” she follows up.

He sees what she’s attempting - trying to focus on something other than the pain that’s firing from her shoulder, the pain that he is about to inflict with the needle in his hand. So as he starts to sew her split skin together, he tells her - goes to great detail about the archery lessons he had as a boy. He tells her how he was rubbish at first, his instructor cruel and unfair, and how he only kept at it to prove the man wrong. But as he grew into a young man, his coordination starting to develop, his talent grew, and when he discovered it was an excellent way to win bets against his fellow lads, and an even better way to impress a young maiden who’d captured his heart, his skill quickly became unmatched.

As he finishes the story, her left hand raises and she grasps his wrist. He feels her trembling against him and knows that the pain must be unbearable. Her eyes tell him she needs a moment, needs a break, but he is reluctant to stop for it will only drag out the experience. So instead, he reaches for the flask and places it in her palm. She gives him a dubious look, and he lets out a soft laugh. “Not too much, or the wounds will begin to bleed again,” he says, “but take enough to dull what you can.”

She gives him such a hard, penetrating look that he feels a little startled by it - wonders what he said to earn such investigative regard. He feels like she’s looking right into his soul, and he cocks his head to the side, curious as to what she’s searching for.

She must find whatever it is, because just as quickly as the gaze came it is gone, replaced with what he’d dare say is a bit of relief, and she tips the flask to her full lips, takes three gulps of the liquid, and hands it back to him without even wincing at the taste. He can’t help it, he grins at her - she’s so refreshingly unpredictable - and though he knows very little of her, he finds that he _likes_ this woman, her terrifying reputation be damned.

Her head drops back once again and she nods for him to resume, so he gets back to work, softly speaking to her about his Merry Men, funny stories about the trouble Roland gets himself into, highway robberies that have gone wrong but in the most hilarious of ways. She doesn’t smile or laugh at his stories, but he thinks she might if she were not in such agony. She’s flushed and sweating, twitching with each prick of the sewing needle, and he wishes he were more skilled, could go faster, but he has to be careful to make sure he gets it right.

He works his way down her chest, being so careful, doing what he can to minimize her discomfort - the wound is really quite nasty. He reaches the top of her breast, only a few more ties to do, and he hates, _hates_ himself for feeling jumpy and nervous about his hands being near such an enticing part of her. He works hard to keep himself from coming into too much contact with her soft mound, but the corset is pushing it up, and the angle is wrong for him to place the stitch. He cannot tie it like this - he needs the flesh relaxed, natural, or it will not heal correctly.

Feeling helpless, lecherous, he looks up to her. Her head is turned away from him, thick dark hair curling softly from their walk in the rain, her eyes open and red rimmed - a bit of the charcoal is smeared now and her left hand is pressed firmly to her mouth. He clears his throat to get her attention, and her eyes flash to his.

“I er,” he starts, feeling like an idiot, “I can’t place the last few stitches with uh,” he clears his throat again, waves his hand at her corset like a complete buffoon, “with the way your skin is, uh, presented,” he finishes stupidly.

 

He’s such an arse. A bloody, fucking idiot.

 

Her eyes widen in realization, and she glances down at her chest, her hand dropping away from her mouth. They sit in silence for a few beats as she digests the information and he mentally berates himself for being such a git.

She licks her lips and says, “You’ll have to do it, I can’t with just the one hand.”

His eyes snap to hers and _fuck-fucking-fuck_. She is holding his gaze, and he cannot be expected to do this, to undress the _queen_ , this brave, audacious, dark eyed, most gorgeous woman he’s ever met.

Christ cut his balls off. He’s never going to survive this.

He drops his eyes to the offending article of clothing, and it’s been a long, long time since he’s undone one of these. And of course, this one just _has_ to tie in the front, the ties ending at the bottom, so as he works his way up he’ll be shown every inch of her beautiful bare skin, her flat stomach, her, her…

Fuck.

He grabs another blanket from his pack and puts it in her left hand. “To cover yourself, as I go, that is, if you so please,” he says, and then he realizes he sounds like he wants her to _not_ cover herself, and he really is going straight to the bowels of hell for his lascivious thoughts.

She swallows thickly and if he wasn’t so busy berating himself he would have seen the hint of a smirk that she quickly tamped down.

He goes for the ties then, forcing his eyes to look only at the laces as he starts, unthreading the garment row by row, her soft skin - _oh so soft_ \- brushing against his fingertips, his knuckles, as he deftly pulls the strings.

He’s halfway up and she hasn’t covered herself _at all_.

 

Bloody minx.

 

He’s at the top third of the laces now, and he braces himself, trying so hard not to look at her, but his body has already betrayed him; he is half hard and all he can do is pray she doesn’t notice. He can’t help it. He’s really, honestly, trying but he just can’t help it. She’s so, so beautiful.

She clears her throat and he realizes too late that he’s hesitating, staring at her skin just below her breasts and fucking hesitating.

She is laying here in utter misery, waiting for him to finish mending her, and he’s _hesitating_.

He wants to die with embarrassment.

“It’s alright,” she says softly, and it’s utterly preposterous that _she’s_ comforting _him_ right now.

“My apologies,” he says, bringing his guilty, burning eyes to hers. “I’m really, honestly trying, you’re just so, so…” he trails off, cheeks flushing, feeling foolish. His son is three feet away for god’s sake.

She searches his face for a moment, and then she just nods and he starts again on the laces. Her hand is there now, pressing the soft blanket up under his hands as he goes, thank god - _thank god_ she is a merciful queen, and he finishes quickly and tucks the blanket in tightly around her upper body.

It only takes a few more minutes and finally, _finally_ he is done with the sewing. He has done a fine job too - remembered to leave a little extra room for the swelling, the knots neat and tight and perfectly aligned so her scar will at least not have crooked sewing marks. He smooths the Turmeric paste over the wound, tries to gently rub it in as much as possible - the more she gets the better she will feel, the less likely an infection will set in. He’s trying to be thorough, wants to coat her with as much of the paste as he can - it’s rare, expensive, has been imported from somewhere, but he’ll gladly give it all to her if it eases her suffering tonight.

He’s deep in thought of how he can bring her the most relief from the pain, wondering if he can get willow bark in this forest, his hand continuing to massage softly around the wound, spreading the paste a little further away from it, rubbing it in, and then his hand strays a little too far and dips just beneath the blanket, his fingertips brushing the top of her nipple.

 

Oh god.

 

He’s just…

 

He’s just molested the queen.

 

He snatches his hand out quickly, hoping to god she didn’t notice, selfishly hoping that the pain was too strong for her to feel his stupid, stupid fingers against her erect nub. But when he lifts his eyes to hers, he immediately knows he’s been caught.

She surprises him again as she breaks the tension with a small, soft laugh - his expression morphing from complete horror to confusion to apology, and he opens his mouth to beg forgiveness but she cuts him off and says, “I think that’ll do, don’t you?”

He nods dumbly in agreement, places her bandages with extra care _not to touch her inappropriately_ , then busies himself with cleaning up.

He rifles through his bag and pulls out an extra shirt - it’ll be long on her but it’s better than nothing, and she won’t be able to put that corset on for quite some time. He hands it to her, feeling sheepish, and with a little extra effort for her wounded right side, she slides it over her body, tugging it down to her hips.

“You should seek rest now,” he says. “I’ll go to the river and wash these,” he gestures to her bloodied clothes. He half expects her to put up a fight, but she just nods, giving a warm glance to Roland’s sleeping form and then running her good hand across her face and settling back into the makeshift bed he has made for her.

 

* * *

 

 

He comes back a little while later with her soiled clothing mostly clean and a handful of freshly peeled willow bark.

 

His heart stops as he enters the tent and finds Roland’s bed empty.

 

Frantically, he glances to the queen, and his heart just about explodes with the vision.

Roland is cuddled up tight to her left, the two of them on their sides facing each other, tucked snugly together under the pile of blankets Robin had bestowed on her.

And all thoughts fall completely out of his head.

 

He doesn’t know this feeling, doesn’t understand what’s happening, but he suddenly feels warmth spread through his hands, his chest, his face. His eyes prick with tears and he’s quickly brushing them away, the sight of his son so completely enamored with this woman going straight to his soul and tugging him toward them.

He kneels quietly beside her, and he can’t help it, he thinks he might be as drawn to her as his son is, as his hand reaches out and strokes the side of her face, brushing her beautiful raven hair out of her eyes. She wakes, but doesn’t stir, and he motions for her to stay still, stay quiet as his son slumbers peacefully against her. He holds up the willow bark for her to see, shows her as he puts it in his mouth and chews, then hands her a piece. She looks a little disgusted but he keeps encouraging her until she accepts and slides it into her mouth, scrunching up her face a little at the flavor. He smiles in sympathy and eases back around them, goes to Roland’s pile of blankets and tucks himself in for the night, staring at the back of the queen and wondering just what the bloody hell he has gotten himself into.


	4. The Agreement

 

 

Chapter Three - The Agreement 

 

 

The brisk morning comes quickly and finds the three of them tucked around the small fire, sharing nuts and jerky and berries for breakfast. Roland sits tightly next to the queen, would have preferred to sit in her lap but a tough scolding from Robin reminded him that she is injured and instead has him pouting and sitting as close as physically possible.

“So, what are you two doing in Misthaven?” she asks, breaking the slightly strained silence.

Roland pipes up quickly before Robin can answer, “We’re gonna find Snow White!”

It is like lightning breaking across the night sky as her features turn - going from mildly interested, to instantly sharp, suspicious. Robin watches as she tries to hide the fact that her entire body has gone tense, both hands fisting. He immediately knows that he needs to be oh-so-careful with what he says next.

“Oh, is that right?” she asks Roland coyly, sweetly - she’s not playing fair and they both know it, know Roland will tell her _anything_ \- “And what is it you need from Snow White?” Robin watches a tick in her jaw jump as she says the name.

He’s not worried. He is honest, always, with his boy, even when the facts are not pleasant.

Roland makes a good show of looking around, making sure no one else is listening as he leans toward her and whispers loudly, “Papa is gonna teach her a lesson,” he says.

The queen’s dark eyes slide to Robin’s - he holds her gaze defiantly, and she shifts back to Roland. “I see. What lesson is that?” her voice is quiet, forcefully soft so that Roland doesn’t catch on to the very, _very_ serious conversation that is happening.

Roland hesitates, Robin has never expanded on the details of what the “lesson” will be, never thought his son would be interrogated over this issue. “Um…I dunno, Papa, what lesson?”

“A grown up lesson,” he tells him softly, and then, “Roland, will you go outside and check on the qu- on the lady’s clothes, see if they are dry enough for her to wear today?”

Robin feels her hot eyes on him, her gaze menacing and so suspicious and he wonders why she hasn’t murdered him yet. Surely she is capable. He knows she has caught his slip.

Roland jumps up, happy to do something nice for his _‘Gina,_  and takes off through the flap of the tent.

Robin regards her seriously and after a tense beat, he says honestly, “I intend to kill her.”

The queen very obviously does not believe him. “Oh, really?” she says mock casually, “And why is that?”

“She is the reason my wife is dead,” he grits out, his teeth snapped tight together, the old familiar rage rising in him, his fingers itching to get around Snow White’s throat as he has imagined so many times.

To her credit, the queen looks slightly less suspicious now, though she is still giving him that sharp, penetrating stare. “Is that so?” she says. Her fingers twitch in her lap.

“Yes-it-fucking-IS-so,” he rushes out, his eyes drilling into her. He has never been able to control the anger, has never found a real grip on how to handle the loss of the life that was stolen from him.

“So you’ve come to the Enchanted Forest to murder Snow White, and you’ve brought your five year old son along for the lesson? Try again, dearie” she says dryly, her skepticism punctuating the words.

“I have brought my son to learn what happens to selfish spoiled brats that take advantage of the kindness of others - to learn that there are consequences for every action, that there is always a price to be paid,” he spits out venomously, and his eyes feel hot, his teeth grinding harshly.

Something in his words convinces her, apparently, because she visibly settles down, hands relaxing, some of the tightness leaving her eyes. She cocks her head at him across the fire and it looks to him as if she is considering her next move. He certainly is.

“Would it please you then, to know that Snow White is already dead?” she says, curiosity lacing her voice.

The air leaves his lungs as if he was kicked in the chest, he leans toward her suddenly, his hands coming to brace in front of him. “Is it true?” he asks, “How is it you know this?”

She flares up like a peacock, her spine stiffening in what he instantly recognizes as pride. “Because I cruh-” she stops short, corrects and begins again, “because I was there when the fatal blow was delivered,” she replies, the tiniest bit of his excitement, his bloodlust, mimicked in her response.

A laugh - pure, exhilarated, relieved - escapes his lungs, and his grin takes over his entire face. He claps his hands once, his euphoria expelling from him, and he runs his hands up through his hair. She’s looking back at him strangely, a little smile quirked on her lips, and she must think he’s absolutely insane but his entire life just got _that much_ better. One down, one to go, he thinks, and smiles radiantly at her.

“If you weren’t the queen I’d fucking kiss you,” he blurts, grinning, reveling in his good luck - but at the mention of her title her face instantly flashes back to suspicious anger, eyes wide, jaw tight.

He can’t help it, he can’t be serious with her right now, and she can turn him into a newt for all he cares because Snow White finally got what she deserved. He tips over onto his back, smiling, laughing loudly, fists pumping in the air and feeling the happiest he has felt since before his wife was murdered.

To her credit, she at least allows him a few minutes before her patience runs thin.

“Sit up, Thief,” she says sternly, and he chuckles again at her somber tone. He takes a deep breath to gather himself, smacks his hands on his chest to make sure he’s not dreaming, then decides to comply before she gets too angry, so he rights himself and faces her annoyed glare.

She starts to speak but he can’t help it, knows it will exasperate her further but he cuts her off anyway - he’s got to get this out before she changes topics. “Thank you,” he says, and he is serious. Absolutely 100% serious. “When you saved Roland’s life I knew you to be selfless, when you lasted through the pain last night I knew your will to be made of iron, but knowing now that you’ve also rid us of Snow White, I can honestly say that you are _absolutely fucking marvelous_.”

Her jaw snaps shut and he watches her swallow the words she was about to speak. She looks uncomfortable, and he can’t have that, so he continues his praise, rambling with his excitement, his guard completely down. “I can’t believe you finally got her, that slippery bitch. I’ve been after her for _months_ ,” he chatters on, “Did she suffer? I hope she suffered. I hope you pulled the heart right from her chest and crushed it into a thousand pieces so she could feel what it has been like for the rest of us all this time. Is it possible? I’ve heard the rumors of course but you know how rumors are, but god, that would have been amazing, just what she deserved -”

“Enough!” she cuts him off, her patience gone, but there is also amusement in her eyes now, her tone is not as sharp, and he stops ranting but can’t stop smiling at her anyway.

He folds his hands in his lap, rocking a little from side to side like a child in his excitement, but he keeps his mouth shut and finally allows her to speak.

She looks confused, a little of the pain from her wounds putting extra strain on her perfect features, but he also thinks she looks entertained and is trying to hide it. She holds his eyes for a moment, and he keeps smiling, softening his gaze at her, lets his eyes drink in her features unashamedly. Her eyes are such a rich, chocolate brown, so dark in her ire and seeming to lighten when she smiles. Her nose is perfect, straight and smooth, her lips so full and there is a natural redness to them even without her lipstick that he finds absolutely alluring. He wonders if her nipples are the same shade, if other parts are too, and he has to fight to keep his gaze from dropping below the smooth column of her neck. He absolutely loves her hair, it is thick and heavy, the darkest black and it waves just heavenly as it tumbles down her back. His hands itch to touch it, to card through it, and he unintentionally licks his lips, has to squeeze his hands to keep them to himself.

“Yes,” she says suddenly, and his thoughts have drifted so far he’s not sure what she’s saying ‘yes’ to. He cocks his head in question.

She rolls her eyes even as she allows a small satisfied smile to grace her lips, as she bares her perfect white teeth to him. “Yes, it is possible, and yes, that is how I did it.”

His face splits in his biggest grin yet, and he can’t help it, he laughs, shaking his head as he says honestly, “My god you are one magnificent woman.”

 

He moves then, slowly, sliding around the fire to get closer to her, and he tries to be cognizant that she has no reason to welcome what he’s about to do, but he has to touch her, somehow, he just _has_ _to_. He slides up next to her, and she looks positively spooked, she’s leaning away from him but trying to make it look natural, trying to hide her hesitation.

He reaches slowly for her good hand, and he is surprised when she lets him take it carefully between his. He smooths his fingers over her skin, again completely enamoured with how soft she is. He rubs soothingly, massaging her palm, her fingers, before he brings her hand to his lips and places a kiss to the back of it. Her breath sucks in as he does it, and he catches her eyes as he brings her hand down to his chest and flattens her palm over his heart, his own hands clasped over hers.

“You have no idea how much you have helped me,” he whispers, staring deep into her eyes. He sees her swallow, a war of emotions raging in her. “You have my loyalty, my trust. Whatever you need of me, it is yours.” He brings her hand back up to his mouth and kisses her knuckles, the backs of her fingers, and she opens her palm so he brings it to his lips too, kissing it softly, his eyes closing in rapture when her fingers stroke tentatively along his jawline.

“The clothes are dry, Papa!” Roland says loudly as he bursts into the tent, daylight flooding them, and the queen snatches her hand from his grasp, burying it deep in her lap, panic blatant in her eyes.

Robin smiles at her softly, allows her the space she suddenly thinks she needs as she stands without a word and quickly makes her way from the tent.

 

He wants to give her some time to herself, so he takes extra time in packing up the tent, his, and Roland’s packs. She’s nowhere to be found outside but he is fairly certain she will come back, he still has some of her clothes and he thinks she would not leave without at least bidding farewell to his son. He takes the time to have that discussion with Roland, to ensure his son understands the danger he was in yesterday, and gains a solemn vow from his boy that he will never wander off again.

It is almost midday before the queen returns, and to be fair she does look more put together. She must have gone to the river, for her hair looks damp and wavy, the smudged paint removed from her eyes. She’s figured out a way to double up the hem of his long shirt to give her a little support, twisting it in the back and tucking it into her leather pants to hold it in place.

He and Roland are play sword fighting, well, Roland thinks he is playing, Robin is attempting to instruct him in at least a few defensive techniques. Mostly they are laughing as they leap and dodge and circle one another in the age old art form.

She takes stock of the camp, her clever eyes surveying the packed bags, the snuffed fire, and he tells Roland to run and fill the flask from the river so they might quench the thirst they have worked up.

As Roland takes off she comes up to him, and he can’t help but appreciate her slim waist, the way her hips flare, the long legs she’s been hiding in those tall, stiff boots. That hunter green shirt of his has never looked so good.

“I see it’s time to break camp,” she states. “Where is it you will go next?”

“Home, to Sherwood Forest for now. I need to check in on the men and drop Roland off before pursuing my last piece of vengeance.” His jaw tightens at the thought.

“Oh? And what piece is that?”

He takes a moment to study her. She is a formidable, powerful woman, a _queen_ , she does not need to be bothered with the trifles of his shabby life. His hesitation seems to prompt her though, and she steps closer to him, her hand reaches for his arm, strokes comfortingly down the side of it before she seems to catch herself and she drops it ungracefully back to her side.

“There is a man, George of Nottingham, who is also responsible for the death of my wife. And he took particular joy in terrorizing my son. I’ll not stop until I have his head,” he says quietly.

She nods, dark eyes sincere and he knows that she understands - knows that the death of Snow White was the ultimate vengeance for her.

“And what will you, do, Your Majesty?” he inquires. He wants to step further into her space, close the distance, but he fights it, fights it hard, it is not appropriate for him to do so.

She squints, and there is an internal debate in her eyes before she decides to tell him. “I’m looking for someone as well, a fairy who goes by the name of Tinker Bell.”

Robin thinks hard, thinks he has heard this name before, has heard some of his men speak of such a fairy. “A green fairy?” he asks and her eyes light up in recognition.

“Yes, actually, do you know her?”

“Unfortunately I do not, but one of my men does - he once had the displeasure of finding himself in a place called Neverland, and I believe it is within those tales that is where I have heard the name.”

She nods at him, lips pursing, and there is a question in her features but he knows she will not ask it.

 

He knows it’s a bad idea. Knows he absolutely should not ask her.

 

But he _wants_ to ask her. Wants even one more minute of her company.

“Would you care to join us?” he blurts out, giving in to the temptation, consequences be damned. “The camp is a week’s journey on foot, but my men are honest and will tell you what they know of this Tinker Bell.”

She hesitates, he sees her teetering on the edge of saying no, so he pushes forward, “Your wounds will need looking after, bandages will need to be changed and salves reapplied. Please, it’s the least I can do - let me give you the information you seek and look after the injuries inflicted on my behalf.”

She looks up to the sky and sucks in a deep breath, thinking over the options at hand, and he wonders if she feels this pull too, this fascination he has for her.

And then, to his complete surprise and utter delight, she agrees.


	5. The Journey

 

 

Chapter Four - The Journey 

  


The going is slow to say the least. Roland is good in the woods, quick and quiet, but the queen’s injury has slowed their progress substantially. She is weak from the blood loss and pain - the Turmeric and willow bark help but do not alleviate it entirely, and the more effort she must exert the harder the toll on her body. Robin worries for her - has learned she is too stubborn to stop, knows that she will walk until she falls, will not ask for his help.

They cross out of Misthaven and into Sherwood on the fourth day, and now that he is familiar with his environment, he forces them to rest.

She’s unhappy about it and glowers at him from across the tent, but he gets her to eat and once he convinces her to sleep she does so for a solid twelve hours. He checks on her often, feeling her forehead for fever, making sure she is not too cold, nor too hot, that her head is pillowed and the pressure off her bad shoulder.

 

He realizes he has a crush.

 

He also realizes he’s entirely helpless about it.

 

And also that he really doesn’t mind it.

 

She is a queen, a queen with _magic_ , and she certainly has no use for him outside her current mission. But they get along quite well, her wit is dry and sarcastic, her intellect unmatched, she is smart and learned but not arrogant about it - and while at times she can be short with him, it is a sharp contrast to how she is soft and sweet with his son, and he loves that. Loves that she has this mushy, patient side when it comes to Roland but won’t put up with his shite for a second.

And his son is completely, unabashedly, in love with her.

In fact, since the queen joined them on their journey, Roland has had little use for Robin, and it’s honestly making him a bit jealous. He hasn’t had to share his son with anyone in two years, and it gives him such mixed feelings to watch his son attach himself so freely to someone else. He thinks, _knows_ that she must be very special for his boy to have taken to her so quickly.

She wakes late in the evening. Roland is sleeping soundly next to her - Robin has stopped fighting him and just lets it happen now - and she sits up slowly, careful not to wake the boy as she tucks the blankets around him and scoots toward the fire.

Robin smiles softly at her, the firelight makes her skin look golden, her hair messy from sleep and her face relaxed as she starts to bring herself to full awareness.

“How’re you feeling, Majesty?” he asks.

She stares into the fire for a moment, smoothing her dark hair back and wiping the sleep from her eyes and _Jesus,_ if only he could wake up to _that_ everyday of his life.

“I prefer Regina,” she says softly, her eyes rising to meet his, one eyebrow arched in challenge as if she expects him to fight her on it.

He’s a little stunned by the request, has known several royals in his lifetime and not one has ever willingly given up the formality. But he loves that she’s surprising him again, and he nods solemnly in agreement.

“How’re you feeling, _Regina_?” he says quietly, almost a whisper - this is the first time he’s said her given name aloud, and she graces him with a little approving smile as he says it.

“Better - I needed the rest.”

“We should change your bandages tonight, it’s been two days and with all the exercise we’ve had, there has been extra strain on the wounds.” He tilts his head toward her as he says it, wondering if she will agree; she’s been fighting him a little on her care, pushing to go just one more hour, just ten more minutes before she’ll let him check on her.

It churns his stomach that she is so fiercely independent - it is obvious that no one has tended to her needs, not like this, in a very long time.

She nods in agreement and says “It feels wet tonight.”

 

She slides over to him, and the past few days it has been awkward to change her bandages - he handles the cut on her back by lifting up the rear edge of the long shirt he’s given her, but he works down the collar to change the dressing on her chest. Not the best scenario but he respects her privacy and he honestly doesn’t trust himself not to look.

Because despite what he pledged to her, he is _not_ trustworthy. Not when his fingers itch to touch her bare skin, when his lips long to slide against hers, when his eyes rake her curves every second she is not looking. There is more than one reason their journey has been slow.

But tonight she shakes him up again, as she lifts the shirt up-up and over her head, gathering the fabric to her breasts to keep them from being exposed, but it does nothing to hide the entire expanse of her back and _fuuuck._

She is so, ridiculously gorgeous.

How can anyone have such smooth skin?

She turns her back to him fully so he can remove the rear bandage, and he snaps himself out of it, gets to work on the wound. It is looking better and he tells her so - the skin has gone from angry red and deep, to grainy looking and pink. He smoothes the honey into it, massaging the sensitive skin along the cut, and replaces the bandage with a fresh, clean one.

As he applies the new dressing, his hands smooth the edges down against her, working the adhesive against her skin so it will stick, but then his hands start to stray, and he just, he just needs one second to touch her. So he listens acutely for any kind of protest from her as his hands slide from the bandage across the center of her back to her other shoulder, and his fingers work her stiff muscles there, kneading, probing, pressing deep into her skin.

Her breathing speeds up but she doesn’t say anything, and he needs reassurance - doesn’t want to pressure her into anything, so he whispers, “This alright?” and she sighs out a soft “Mmhmm,” so he continues.

His fingers smooth across the narrow spanse of her back and she leans forward, granting him further access to her lower back, and _fuck_ those pants are low, he can see the dimples on either side of her tailbone and he absolutely cannot stop his hands as they trace across her skin to rub over them, to grasp and knead at her waist, his thumbs bracketing her spine and sliding up firmly, eliciting small pops from the joints.

He finds it odd that when stripped down she is so small beneath his hands, when all other times she seems larger than life, seems to take up every thought, every glance, every smell. The way she constantly has his awareness of her at the forefront of every move he makes.

One hand goes down to work her lumbar, and the other slides back up. His traitorous, greedy fingers haven’t had enough, and he slides them up to the base of her neck, under her hair, and before he thinks to stop himself he’s threaded them into her nape. His blunt nails scratch the base of her skull, up and down the length of her neck, fingers squeezing and massaging the tight muscles there, and then both his hands are in her hair, gently combing through the thick locks, stopping to thread deeper and knead her temples, the top of her head, down behind her ears - she has cute ears - and then pulling through the long length of it, over and over, stroking through the thick, silky strands, then gathering it up in one hand as the other works the exposed entirety of her neck.

He is so, so focused on her, on his hands against her skin, on this opportunity she has given him, that he almost jumps when it happens.

 

She moans.

 

It is soft and breathy, restrained like she’s been holding it in and just couldn’t any longer, and just like that, his cock is hard.

He lets out a shaking breath - it hits the skin between her shoulder and neck, and he watches in awe as gooseflesh rises and a shiver runs down her spine.

She leans back against him, settling into him, and he feels proud that she’s relaxing under his touch, getting excited that she’s allowing him to touch her so intimately, but as her back connects with his front she hisses out in pain and jerks forward, her injury a sharp reminder that they were suddenly careening outside the parameters of the intended situation.

She slides forward, turning around to face him, holding the shirt tightly against her breasts, and she scoots in close between his spread legs. She looks in his eyes, giving him a guilty looking smirk as she gestures down to the other bandage, “Now this one.”

 

He puffs out a little chuckle at the situation they’ve just found themselves in. She is such a wonder. Brave, clever, strong, and oh so beautiful. He started this whole thing with wanting to heal the wounds on her skin, but as he reaches for her in the dim firelight, he finds himself wanting to heal the wounds within her as well.

He peels the bandage back carefully, knows that this wound is more sensitive, more painful. She is right, the bandage is a bit wet but not from infection - it is the clear fluid of healing pushing out from the wound to saturate the bandage, and this makes him so happy - he smiles genuinely and tells her the good news as she watches him work.

He cleans the wound thoroughly, the stitches are holding well and the swelling is starting to subside, the healing properties of the salves and his diligent care starting to pay off.

“I think after this turn, we might be able to leave this bandage off,” he murmurs to her as he starts to rub the fresh paste into her skin. She _hmmms_ in response as his fingers slide gently along her tender flesh. He’s taking his time, always seems to be taking his time when he’s allowed to put his hands on her, and he’s past the point of telling himself it has anything to do with the injury.

His hand works from the top of the wound down, down, and as he reaches the top of her breast, he hears her breathing go shaky. He’s confused - he’s been proper this time, controlled, hasn’t strayed outside the appropriate area, so he flicks his gaze to hers, concerned he’s hurt her.

When his eyes meet hers however, pain is not what he sees. Her eyes are hot on him, her chest rising and falling quickly, and his hand is still on her chest, just above where he desperately wants it to be, and she’s looking at him like _that_ and he’s so conflicted his own breathing starts to catch, his heartbeat slamming in his chest.

He licks his lips, wants to ask her, wants to say something, _anything,_ but then her good hand is covering his, sliding it slowly, slowly down from the wound, and he realizes - holy jesus fuck - she’s dropped the shirt to do so.

He fights it - fights so, so hard not to let his gaze drop, and he swallows thickly as her nipple brushes his palm and she forms his thick fingers around the swell of her bare breast.

She locks eyes with him, and their breaths are ragged though they’re hardly moving at all. He can feel her heart beating, thump-thump-thumping rapidly in her chest.

He makes the mistake of looking down at their joined hands, and then he completely loses the battle of not looking at her breasts.

The air wooshes out of him - her tits are perfect and he knew - _knew_ they would be. Fucking bloody brilliantly perfect. He wants his mouth on them. Wants to bury his face between them and run his tongue along the undersides. Wants to press them together and suck both nipples into his mouth at once.

He lets out this little pained, aroused sound and she squeezes her hand over his, and he watches dumbstruck as she lifts her hand and leaves him there - leaving the decision up to him.

He finally tears his eyes from her plump, round, oh-so-squeezable breasts and meets her gaze, and this woman, this temptress, she’s fucking smirking at him.

 

Alright then.

 

He lets out a little laugh, touches his forehead to hers. “You’re fucking perfect,” he tells her, and she lets out a soft laugh too, her breath hitting his lips.

His hand slides slowly down, cupping her, the warm supple flesh overflowing in his palm, and how such a small woman has such buxom tits he doesn’t know, but he thanks all the deities for it.

She breathes in deeply as he squeezes her flesh gently, and his other hand reaches for her other breast, hefting and feeling the weight of her in both his hands.

He leans back to watch his hands as they knead her, as he slides his hands up just a little and swipes his thumbs across her erect, pink nipples, and he was right - the color does match her lips, and he’ll never be able to look at them again without immediately thinking of this. She’s gasping in through her mouth as he strokes her, breathing fast, and he’s never been so enthralled with a woman. Her chest is flush with arousal, her lips parted and her hot dark eyes flickering from his face to his hands as she watches him play with her sensitive mounds, and she breathes out a soft _Ohhh_. He flicks both nipples rapidly with his thumbs, and she jerks, arching into the touch, a little noise getting caught in the back of her throat as he puts more friction into it. He pinches the little peaks, rolls them between his thumb and forefinger, skims them with just-barely-there touches and her head tips back in pure pleasure.

He’s rock hard for her, can feel the tip of his cock making a small wet spot in his trousers, would absolutely love to get inside of her, but he’s pretty sure this is all he’s getting and he is completely thrilled to have it. So he focuses on her, on the way she’s starting move her hips a little, and he thinks she’s probably wet, probably soaking whatever underthings she’s got on under those pants that have done nothing but tease his imagination for the last several days.

He leans forward, presses his lips to her ear, tells her how hot she makes him but reminds her that they have to be quiet, so quiet, and he feels a streak of guilt because he truly is the worst father in the world - his son is asleep on the other side of the tent and he has absolutely no willpower to stop what they’ve started.

Realization hits her though, and thank god she has some sense of propriety, because she pulls back from him a little, her eyes closing, brow furrowed with her own guilt, and she whispers, “We, we shouldn’t - we have to stop.”

His hands reluctantly withdraw from her, and he nods his agreement, taking in one last eyeful of her gorgeous full breasts and swollen, perked nipples as he releases a shaky breath. They look into each other’s eyes for a few minutes, calming down, trying to gather themselves, and he reminds them that he needs to re-bandage her wound, and that seems to help pull them out of their little fantasy.

 

He works quickly and applies the new bandage, taking care to be gentle, but perhaps not trying quite so hard to avoid an accidental graze or two against her skin. When he’s done, he helps her get the shirt back on, pulls her hair up and out of the collar for her, and before she moves away he leans in quickly and kisses her cheek, lingering against her as he breathes her in. Her hand comes up to the side of his face and strokes his cheek, his neck, and then she moves away, back to safety with Roland, and Robin settles himself down on his side of the tent.

  
As he drifts into sleep that evening, his eyes focus only on those of the beautiful woman wrapped around his son, and even though he's uncomfortably hard in his trousers and knows relief is nowhere in sight, he feels oddly content with the knowledge that something has started, something that feels so, so _right_.


	6. The Shepherd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning - some violence here.

 

 

Chapter Five - The Shepherd 

  


He hears the branch snap and immediately knows that it is not a natural sound. It’s too sharp, too heavy, too much for even a wild animal to have made it - he feels, surmises, that it is from the wide hoof of a horse.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he squeezes Roland’s shoulder, gives him the alert signal, and Roland quickly and silently disappears off into the direction Robin has indicated. Hiding oneself is something his boy knows, and knows to do it well; Robin has confidence he will not be found.

Regina is stiff beside him, he thinks she feels the wrongness in the air, may have also heard the snap of the branch, because she is scanning the trees in the direction he thinks it came from. He catches her eye and shifts his own, trying to communicate to her that he’s going to slip around behind the noise to investigate, and bless her, she seems to understand and takes a few casually slow steps in the opposite direction.

Robin slinks off quickly, slipping quietly through the trees, his ears straining for the next sound - he knows there will be one, knows he is not mistaken in this. And then it comes again, not a branch snapping but a thud, as if the beast has stomped, and Robin is certain now that it is a horse.

He climbs up into the trees then, knowing that the human weakness is never bothering to look up - never expecting trouble from above, and the trees in Sherwood are huge with branches that interweave as they block out the sun, making travel easy for one with the proper expertise.

He slips like a shadow across the large branches, keeping low with his bow in hand. He hears the rider dismount, the sound of running, and Robin is following, easily catching up to the man as he crashes through the brush and comes upon Regina.

 

She is standing still where she is, not cowering or trying to run even though the man has his sword unsheathed, is flipping it around in his hand in a show of arrogance as he menacingly steps toward her.

“My dear, you really should work on your sneaking around, you nearly woke the entire forest with all that racket,” she says, sounding bored.

“It will all be worth it once I’ve run you through, witch. Once I’ve cut you up into little fucking pieces like you deserve,” the man hisses at her, taking another step in her direction. She doesn’t budge.

“Now really, just because you’re a shepherd does not mean you have to speak like one. Snow would be so disappointed,” she says, and her voice full of false concern.

Robin is confused, the man is dressed more like a prince than a shepherd.

The man visibly flinches, obviously affected by her words, and he flips the sword again. “Well, Snow _isn’t here_ thanks to you, and once I’m through gutting you, no one else will know either.”

She _hmmm’s_ , another bored sound and Robin can see the way she rolls her eyes at him, her lips quirking up as she smiles mockingly.

“I knew you couldn’t stand it, knew you’d have to leave your little bubble of safety eventually. ‘Cause you can’t live without it can you? You’re crippled without it, just a commoner like the rest of us filthy animals.” The man’s face is turning pink with his anger, and he takes another step at the queen.

Robin has the bow drawn, ready to kill the man at any second, but he’s curious, and Regina does not seem the least bit alarmed.

“Well, David I have to say, it certainly was a cute trick, but you should know well enough that I always have a few tricks of my own,” she says, one eyebrow arching as _she_ steps toward _him_ , and now her voice has changed, it slithers like a snake through the air around them.

David stills and begins to look a little nervous, Robin can see the man’s eyes running over her, trying to figure out what she means, shifting to the trees behind her and back. It is obvious that he is afraid of her.

“I must say that _bracelet_ is rather fetching on you. I’ll make sure it’s buried with you, I'm sure that's what your mother would have wanted,” he says, trying to mock her in return, his face screwed up in anger, but it doesn’t seem to hit as hard as her words had.

“Now, now, dearie,” she says sweetly, tilting her head and giving David a devilish smile, “Perhaps we should have a drink and discuss this - I don’t see any ravines nearby for us to tumble into,” she punctuates this with a little shrug of her shoulders, her brows rising in what is clearly a taunt as her smile grows wider.

 

It gives Robin a chill. And turns him the fuck on.

 

“YOU EVIL BITCH,” David yells, and as he starts to rush her Robin lets his arrow fly, piercing straight through the man’s sword hand. He squeals shrilly, dropping the sword, his head whipping around to determine the direction that the arrow came from as he doubles over with the pain, pulling his wrecked hand into his abdomen.

Robin looks to Regina and she’s already looking at him, their eyes meeting immediately, a little smirk of approval on her pretty face.

Robin drops down from the tree and walks toward the man, another arrow nocked.

“That’s certainly no way to speak to a lady,” Robin says to him.

The man sobs out in pain, rage, looks to Robin and growls, “That’s no lady.”

 

And something inside of Robin _snaps_.

 

He takes two quick steps and then his fist is connecting **hard** with David’s jaw, the full right hook driving the other man into the ground, blood spraying from his mouth, his nose, his head snapping down with such force that he hits it on the dirt as he drops.

Robin is on him instantly, pummeling him with big swings from his right fist, driving the man down roughly again and again, and Robin’s voice is a quiet, menacing growl as he tells him _to shut the fuck up_ , that he _will not speak to the queen_ that way, that _he will fucking end him_ if he goes near her again.

The man stops fighting, goes limp in the dirt, giving up.

What a coward.

Robin gets up and spits the word at him as he goes. He takes a few steps back, shaking out his fist, and looks to Regina.

She looks completely unfazed by his violence, but Robin sees a hint of a smile in her eyes and he gets a thrill that perhaps he just made her a little bit proud.

“You’re a fool,” David rasps. “She’s deceived you - she’s using you.”

Robin takes a menacing step toward the man and he flinches away, so Robin pulls up short and stops, looking back to Regina for her guidance. She’s looking hard at the man on the ground, he can see the wheels turning in her mind, so Robin steps back and rubs his knuckles.

“She’s worthless without her magic,” David seethes. “She’s just using you until she gets what she wants, and then she’ll ruin you, like she ruins everything else.”

Robin stares hard at the man, his fists clenching in defense of Regina, and he really, really wants to kill him. Wishes Regina would tell him to do so.

“Will he stop?” Robin turns to her and asks softly. “Will he stop pursuing you if we leave him alive?”

She doesn’t look at Robin, continues to stare intensely, angrily at David as he is sprawled and bleeding at her feet.

“No.” She looks disappointed.

Robin nods and turns back to the man, drawing his bow, and even though the man shrieks out in protest, he doesn’t hesitate - he lets the arrow fly home.

 

With the deed done, Robin retrieves both arrows and wipes them on his pants, cleaning them the best he can, and then he moves back to the shepherd. He combs the body for any unique items he’s carrying, takes his rings, the locket from around his neck, his sword and sheath and a few other items that may have value. Then he shoves them in his pack - he’ll disburse the trinkets at camp, have the men sell them in different parts of the land where it can’t be traced back. They are so deep in the forest that no one will be able to identify the body by the time it is found, if it ever is.

When he is done he looks to Regina, and she is standing quietly with the man’s horse, a thick bodied, black war horse, stroking the beast’s nose and whispering to it. He feels a sharp sting of affection and joins her.

“I suppose you’d like an explanation,” she says quietly as he comes to pet the stallion’s mane beside her.

“None that you don’t wish to give,” he replies, and she gives him a disbelieving look, turns to fully face him and gives him that look that goes right deep down into his soul. He stares back, he means what he says, he doesn’t know who this man was or what his vendetta was, but it is absolutely none of his business.

As long as you ignore the fact that Robin just murdered him.

 

For the queen.

 

No -

 

For _Regina_.

 

She drops her eyes and that look of humiliation creeps into her features - she looks frustrated and angry, and he again sees her fingers flexing and flicking, and he finally thinks he understands.

“The cuff,” she starts, her voice low and raspy, her eyes on the horse, “it traps my magic. Stops me from being able to use it.” She indicates the leather bracelet on her right arm.

Robin nods, getting it, understanding why her fingers twitch and nothing happens - she’s trying to summon it, to protect herself, heal herself, and failing every time. He imagines not being able to pull his bow back, never able to let another arrow fly, and his heart _aches_ for her.

“Christ,” he rumbles, so fucking angry over it.

“At one time it was merely my mother’s bracelet,” she continues. “Recently it was sent to me, and in a moment of stupidity I put it on. I have not been able to wield my magic since. Nor have I been able to remove it.”

“And the fairy can take it off?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” she sighs, leaning her forehead against the horse’s, stroking it’s nose as her eyes close in humiliation.

“Then we find the fairy,” he says, determined.

He hears her scoff, but he has already moved, making the noise for Roland that signals all is good, and he starts going through the pack on the horse. There are a few rations, another warm blanket, and Robin is happy that they have the beast. It is healthy and well-broke, and it will make the rest of their journey so much easier.

She’s still standing with the horse when Roland appears, and the boy is so excited about getting to ride it that the tension breaks as Robin hoists him up high into the saddle. He turns to Regina. “Now you, milady,” he says as he creates a step with his clasped hands, ready to give her a boost up.

“I’m fine,” she insists, and turns as if to walk away.

Robin grabs her by the wrist, spinning her back to him and her eyes flash with ire - he knows she doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to be man-handled, but she _needs_ to ride. It will speed their journey, and her recovery, and she’s just being stubborn.

“Please,” he says softly, and he won’t beg her - but he won’t take the seriousness out of his eyes either.

She literally stomps her foot a little in her frustration, and he gets it, he does, but this is what they need to do. With the horse they can reach camp in less than two days, one if he really pushes it. Without, it will be at least three more days, and he tells her as much.

Roland calls to her from his high seat on the stallion, “C’mon, ‘Gina! We’re gonna ride!” and Robin watches amused as she purses her lips and then finally gives in, taking the boost from him and settling in behind Roland atop the steed.

Robin grabs the reins and takes off at a jog, he’s going to get that fucking cuff off her if he has to sprint all the way to Neverland.


	7. The Envy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning - one brief, non-graphic implication of spousal abuse.

 

 

Chapter Six - The Envy 

  


They make it to camp within twenty-four hours, and Robin thinks he might die from the exertion, but knows it was worth it to give his son and his, what? his _friend?_ the rest they deserve.

Roland and Regina are asleep on top of the horse; she is an excellent - beyond excellent - rider, even with her bad shoulder and his son leaning on her for support, she manages to keep them upright as she dozes in the saddle.

Robin’s calves are on fire and he and the horse have both worked up a decent lather as they finally slow. The scouts of the camp are within sight and a surge of contentment slides through him - he is _home_. They call out to him, “Seventeen?” and he responds “Nine!” and they let him through, greeting him with a warm, “Eyy,” and “‘Bout time in’it?” as he passes. His heart feels happy and a weary smile lights his features.

He walks the horse straight to his tent and old Freya meets them on the way, reaching up for Roland and pulling the sleeping child from the saddle, her crinkled eyes flashing to his when she gets a look at the other rider, but Robin meets her stare with full authority and she takes his son off to bed without asking any questions.

Robin ties the horse to the post outside his tent, looking up at Regina. She is beautiful in the moonlight, but also stiff-backed and very, very nervous looking.

“Come,” he says, extending his hand to her.

She looks unsure, so he follows up with, “Surely you’d prefer a soft bed to that saddle tonight?”

She gives him a _look_ and takes his hand, swinging down off the horse, and he feels such a hot surge of desire for her as she slides into his arms that he can’t help it when he looks from her eyes to her full lips. But she steps back almost immediately and he reluctantly lets go of her, ducking his head and motioning for her to follow him.

He gets her situated in his tent, gets her a basin to wash with and checks on Roland. He gives himself a quick scrub down to get the sweat off then goes to their storage equipment and procures her a night dress (it’s really more of a slip but it’ll have to do), and some clean clothes for the morning - it isn’t much, just breaches, a soft shirt, a long red leather tunic and underthings, but she looks enormously grateful for the items when he returns with them.

He gives her a small grimace, “The boy who we need to speak with will be here in a few days; he’s been out east running gold for me to some of the more remote villages, but he should be finished soon. I hope that’s alright?” he holds his breath until she nods her agreement.

He turns to go, intending to slip into Roland’s tent for the night - he doesn’t want to invade her privacy and acknowledges that he is likely unwanted, but she calls to him as he exits.

“Yes, milady?” he asks, fatigue setting in now that they are safe and well taken care of.

“Will you tell them who I am?” she says, her voice is tight and serious and he hates that - wants her to be relaxed in his place of safety.

“I am sure they already know,” he responds honestly. The Merry Men and their families come from all reaches of the world, and Regina’s reputation is well known. It is highly likely that at least a few of them will recognize her on sight. Freya certainly did.

“Surely it will cause… an issue?” she says, and he thinks the way she pulls the emotion from her face, looking completely stoic, is most certainly a mask - thinks she's trying to cover real concern. He knows what she means to say - won’t her presence cause fear? panic? mutiny?

“It’s taken care of,” he says simply. She looks so tired in the candlelight and he understands her hesitation - she must feel utterly defenseless without her magic. Like living your entire life with steel body armor and then suddenly having it stripped away. It is an uninviting thought to say the least.

Before he can talk himself out of it he walks quickly to her, keeps coming until he is too close to be considered appropriate, and she raises her hands to his chest - her right arm has started to make good progress - and she’s not quite bracing against him but she’s still giving a half-hearted attempt at stopping him from getting any closer. He reaches for her waist, knows that he shouldn’t touch her like this, shouldn’t hold her, but he _just wants to_. They have had an insane week together and he has true, honest affection for her. He cares for her. Wants her to feel welcome and comfortable and well taken care of in his home.

“Regina,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to hers. Her breath hitches a little, her fingers flexing against his chest. He swallows thickly and continues.” You are my guest and no harm will befall you here. This is my home, and you are most welcome in it.” He pulls his head back to catch her eyes, to drive home that he is real, he is serious and trustworthy in this. He flexes his fingers against her, smoothing his hands across her soft curves, his thumbs rubbing against her hip bones.

She takes a deep breath and nods softly, accepting, and he leans into her, sliding his hands to her back and tightening his arms, pulling her into a warm embrace. She lets her head rest against his shoulder, her face turned in against his neck, and he rubs his hands against her back soothingly. “I’ve got you,” he whispers to her, and she buries her face a little deeper into him as her arms slide around his waist.

She allows him to hold her for a little while, and he coaxes her to settle into him, her heartbeat finally drawing steady against him as he slides his hands up and down her back, breathing her in. He strokes her dark hair, turns his head and kisses her temple, and _fuck_ he’s got to stop kissing her all the time but he's just _so_ enamoured with her. She's such a mystery, so strong in one moment and so vulnerable in the next, and he can't get enough. She intrigues the hell out of him.

“Shall I stay in here tonight, so you’re not alone?” he asks softly. “I’ve a second pallet,” he clarifies. She doesn’t say anything so he takes that as acceptance as he says, “Alright love, let’s get you to bed.”

He turns his back so she can change, and he gets her tucked into his bed with several extra furs and a huge spoonful of real pain medication. Then he rolls out his spare cot right next to the bed, as close as he can, not caring if it’s appropriate or not - she is so nervous and he will do what he can to soothe her. He sighs in relief as he quickly crawls into the soft pallet, his tired muscles relaxing. Her left side is closest to him and just as he’s dozing off he feels her hand reach for his, and he falls asleep with the knowledge that she’s just placed her hand, her trust, _willingly_ with him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Morning comes early for Robin - despite their late evening and the physical exertion of the day before, his internal clock is set early, still set on ‘Get-Up-and-Go-Hunt-Snow-White’ time. He stretches in his cot, his spine gives a few satisfying pops and he already feels the soreness in his legs. He misses being twenty, when ‘soreness’ was just an emotion.

He sits up carefully, crouching next to the bed beside him and sees Regina is still sound asleep. She’s on her side, facing him, her hands tucked up under her chin almost childishly, and his heart does that double-stutter he’s starting to expect every time he sees her with her guard down.

Beautiful, he thinks. Lovely.

He reaches for her, brushing a few locks of her hair back from her forehead, and then trailing his fingers softly across her finely arched brows, down the side of her cheek to her neck.

 

“GET-YOUR-HANDS-OFF-ME-” she cries out, her hands and legs immediately striking out at him, her whole body scooting back in a flash - “DON’T-TOUCH-ME-LEO-GET-AWAY-FROM-ME!”

Her eyes are completely wild, panicked, and she’s still kicking at him, connects one particularly well placed punt with his cheekbone as she continues to back up and he falls over backwards on his arse, shocked by her reaction.

 

And then he realizes.

 

_Leo._ Leopold.

 

He is such a fucking idiot.

“No-no-no, darling, it’s Robin - it’s me, it’s me!” he whispers loudly, urgently, holding his hands up for her to see from his position on the floor, not daring to move toward her in her fit of fear.

She goes quiet immediately, the only sound their heavy breathing as everything settles back down.

“Idiot,” she growls at him, and he sits up a little, able now to see her scrubbing her hands roughly across her face.

“I’m sorry - I’m so sorry - I didn’t mean to wake you -”

“Then keep your hands to yourself!” she cuts in, angry.

He nods. She is, of course, completely correct. He should not have touched her - has no right to touch her. He is so stupid.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, “You’re absolutely right. From this point forward, my hands will be exclusively kept to my own person,” he says, and he means it - he has no want to ever cause her to react this way again.

She lets out a heavy breath, gives the bracelet - _the cuff_ \- a good glare, then turns her fiery eyes on him. “You’re lucky I don’t have my magic, Thief, or you would not have the chance to test your restraint.”

He nods, her warning clear, and he agrees, actually. He’s got to get his shite together, stop touching and kissing her like they’re, they’re - he cuts off the thought. They are _not_.

He sits up fully, his cheek smarting from her kick, careful to keep his body from moving toward her at all, and he drops his head into his palm. _Christ_.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quietly. “Please let me assure you I would never, _never-_ ”

“Shut up,” she interrupts, her voice sharp.

“I-”

“Just stop talking!” she bursts out, turning her dark eyes fully on him, her eyebrows raised in exasperation, her hands dropping heavily into her lap.

He nods and after a few beats he sees her ire start to subside. He scoots back and stands slowly, goes to the basin and splashes a little water on his face. He heads for the tent flap but before he exits he can’t help it, he _has_ to tell her - “Regina,” he says soft - _soft_ \- and she raises her gaze to his. He can see her anger, perhaps embarrassment too, flaring again. His eyes are hot with his own embarrassment and the protectiveness he feels so strongly for her bleeds into his voice as he vows to her, “No one will _ever_ touch you again without your consent. As long as I am with you, of this you can be certain.”

Her eyes are so, so serious as he holds them with his own. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move even, so he nods to her and exits the tent.

His hands itch with rage, he wants, _needs_ to release the pressure inside of him.

If “King” Leopold were still alive, Robin would be well on his way to making some seriously poor decisions.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He heads into the camp to gather a bit of breakfast for Roland, and as he rounds the corner of the aisle of tents, the large cook fire coming into view, he overhears a few of his men chuckling. As he approaches they don’t see him, and Will Scarlet continues the story he’s telling, making lewd motions with his hands, the other men cracking up, and then Robin hears him say, “Trust me, murderous streak aside, those tits and that tight arse are just as dangerous - like a bloody siren call. With any luck she’ll bewitch us all into servicing her,” - the men laugh, and Will makes a lewd gesture with his hand and his tongue as he says, “And I’ll tell you what, mates, I’ll be happy to go first!”

Robin walks up to them, his fury building, building, and then Will turns to him and greets him jovially. “Robin!” he says as he claps his hand on Robin’s shoulder. Then he motions to the fresh shiner Robin is now sporting, wiggling his eyebrows and laughing as he says, “What’sat mate, she like it rough?”

And it is the _wrong_ thing to say.

Robin sees, _literally sees_ red and Will has no idea what’s coming when Robin turns and clocks him full in the face, the punch knocking him right down on his back as he cries out, and the rest of the men take a step back in shock as they absorb the moment.

“You will keep your fucking mouth shut if you can’t speak with civility,” he rages at him and Will obediently raises his hands in surrender.

“ _Christ_ Robin!” he exclaims, his lip split and the blood running down his chin.

“Do you understand?” he growls at him, then lifts his eyes to the rest of the men in the group, to the small gathering of others who have started to notice, making it clear the message is for all of them.

Everyone nods solemnly, including Will, who, to his credit sincerely says, “Sorry, mate, sorry.”

Robin realizes he’s overreacted, that he absolutely _does not_ have his shite together - that he’s spiraling more and more out of control when it comes to her - but it’s too late now so he reaches his hand down to Will and pulls him back to his feet. He and Will exchange a nod - discussion over - and he stalks off in his search for breakfast.

Little John smirks at him as he passes, and Robin snaps, “Shut it,” which earns him a head shake and quiet chuckle from the large man.

 

 

* * *

  


Things get a little easier around camp from that point forward. No one says or does anything Robin deems punch-worthy, and they are all generally cordial to Regina when she appears with Roland later that morning.

She’s wearing the clothes that Robin got for her and she’s double braided her hair. It makes her look youthful, innocent, and so very pretty that Robin stops in his tracks and lets himself drink her in for a moment.

“Careful,” Freya says quietly as she passes, “Or you’ll start to catch flies.”

Robin snaps his mouth shut so hard his teeth clack, and Freya snickers as she walks on.

 

_Get. It. Together. Robin._

 

He clears his throat, looking around guiltily, but no one else has seemed to notice and so he joins his son and the queen by the fire.

Little John approaches around lunch and introduces himself to Regina, but when it comes time to shake hands or bow, he’s obviously not certain which to do. So the big man gives her a sheepish smile, leaning toward her as he says quietly, “My apologies, your Majesty, but could you kindly instruct me on your preference for these formalities?” And Robin smiles a little at him, because really he’s asking her _Do we call you queen or are you one of us now?_  but he’s taking care to do it in the least offensive way possible, and it means so much to Robin that he’s even trying.

Regina returns John’s smile with an understanding one of her own, nods and says, “Since it seems I am a guest in _your_ home, why don’t we keep it casual,” and she extends her hand to him, which he promptly takes, but instead of shaking it he kisses the back.

A tiny spark of envy jumps in Robin’s stomach.

“Thank you, milady,” John says, blatantly throws Robin a knowing wink, and then takes his leave. Robin can’t help but frown after the man.

A minute goes by and she says, “You can stop marking your territory any time now, Thief,” and oh, she is so very annoyed.

Robin nods, his eyes feel hot again and he swallows thickly before he stalks off.

 


	8. The Knife

 

 

Chapter Seven - The Knife 

 

It’s been five days at camp with her and it all feels like slow torture to Robin.

The thing is, he’s trying - he’s bloody trying - but the women keep looking at Regina with admiration and the men are looking at her with lust and he’s _trying_ but he just wants her all to himself. Wants her to _want him to want her_ all to himself.

Her wounds are healing quickly now that she has had some rest and real medicine to help her, and she no longer requires bandaging. Her right arm is nearly back to normal and, with Freya's help, she removed her stitches yesterday. It doesn’t escape his notice that she heals abnormally fast.

He’s been staying in Roland’s tent and he hasn’t touched her _at all_ since she accidentally called him “Leo”.

The fact that she has not touched him either makes his heart feel heavy and dull in his chest.

He’s such a fool.

So this afternoon as she plays with Roland he grabs his bow and quiver and heads off to target practice. His aim is getting sloppy anyway - he’d wanted to break the shepherd’s wrist but had split clean through the meat of his hand instead. Because he was _distracted_. Is _always_ distracted now it seems, and he knows better than most that an inch makes all the difference when your weapon of choice is a bow.  

It is hours before he stops, and though his hands are heavily calloused, his fingers still feel sore and a little raw from all the practice. When he returns to camp he finds Roland snuggled up by the fire with Freya, so he chooses not to disturb the pair and continues on to his tent. It is vacant when he arrives and he’s glad. He’s still frustrated and angry and doesn’t need to deal with _the queen_ and her mixed signals right now. He grabs some fresh clothes and bathing salts and takes off for the hot spring.

Along the way he comes across Regina, Will and John. They are in a little clearing and Will has his arms wrapped around Regina from behind - she is wielding a large knife and Will is guiding her movements, turning her arm this way and that and showing her how to properly thrust it, how to get the correct angle for the most damage. John is pretending to attack her from different angles, helping her understand the weak spots on a moving target, where to cut to wound and where to kill. Robin has come to a halt in the path and all the jealous anger he had just burned off is immediately boiling again. She laughs loudly as John teases her and she throws back a few well placed insults, Will moving to the side of her to grasp her wrist and correct her grip. When he does it, Regina looks up and catches Robin staring, and she meets his hot gaze with one of her own.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t attempt to join them, and she doesn’t ask him to.

She turns to Will then, both their faces in profile to Robin, and she reaches up to run her thumb across Will’s healing split lip, stroking him sweetly and saying something quietly that makes Will duck his head and laugh.

 

Robin has never coveted anything like this. It is unbearable.

 

His blood boils in his veins. Swirls through his body and he feels like he is on fire all over. His fists clench, he takes one step toward them and then forces himself to pull back, to march on to the hot spring. She has made it very clear that it is not he who interests her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The spring is empty of people when he arrives and he is relieved. He needs a few moments of peace tonight. It has been a tumultuous few days and his attitude over Regina is completely out of control - a war of desire, jealousy, protectiveness, and rejection making him unpredictable and violent.

The water is warm when he strips and sinks down into it, situating himself onto the little stone ledge that serves as a seat, and he’s glad for the heat. His muscles are sore and his ego is burned and he’s going to take some time to lick his wounds, to get himself back together. He uses the salts roughly on his skin, rubs way too hard until he’s pink all over and it helps a little, gets some of the annoyance to seep out of his skin. He tips his head back against the stone behind him, grabbing his shirt and using it as a cushion as he closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. In-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10- Out. And again, and again, until his brain shuts up and his shoulders relax and he’s not thinking at all, just breathing.

There is cold steel against his throat suddenly, and his eyes snap open to the pitch black darkness of the night as the knife presses without quite breaking the skin.

“Liar,” she hisses, fury embedded in the word.

He swallows, but the pressure she has on the knife does not allow him to move, won’t allow him to look at her.

“Probably,” he responds, not sure what she’s eluding to but he’s really starting to be just about done with these dramatics.

“You don’t deny it?” she whispers, her voice unbelieving.

“Your Majesty, I am a thief by trade - lying is an occupational requirement. But if you care to clarify your meaning, I’d be happy to correct you,” and he can’t keep his own anger from seeping into his voice - snarky sarcasm lacing his words.

She digs the knife in a little - any harder and she will break the skin - as she seethes, “About your wife. About killing Snow White.”

His brow furrows - he specifically remembers telling her the truth on that, he’s no idea what she’s on about.

“You are mistaken,” he replies, “I was honest in what I told you.”

“Do not push me, Thief!” she exclaims, flicking the knife down and cutting a quick slice into his collarbone. The blood trickles down into the water around him.

He grits his teeth and sucks in a breath. That fucking hurt.

“You will have to expand on your meaning then, because I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he grits out.

“ _Marian,_ ” she says, the name coming off her tongue like it tastes bad, “Maid Marian of the house of May, who actively aided Snow White in her treachery,” she spits out. “Marian who died at the swords of my Black Guard by refusing to give up Snow’s location.”

Robin is so angry. He knows these things, _knows_ what Marian did under the guidance of Snow White and hates her for it.

“And this makes me a liar in what regard?”

“I-am-not-a-fool!” she whispers harshly in his ear. “Your last target - there is no George of Nottingham - it is Regina of Misthaven whom you seek.”

The knife is tight on his neck, her lips right against his ear and her breath makes him shiver, gooseflesh running down his neck and up into his hairline.

“I do not see how my wife’s betrayal of my son and me is cause for me to kill _you_ ,” he says, annoyed. This is ridiculous. Will Marian’s sins never cease to ruin his life?

Regina says nothing.

So he unleashes.

“My wife would still be alive had she chosen her family over her foolish ambitions - if Snow White had not convinced her of her need to contribute to the ‘greater-fucking-good’,” he seethes. “She would be alive if Snow White had had any conscience at all for the lives she was tearing apart as she gallivanted from kingdom to kingdom, inciting unneeded uprising instead of facing the consequences of her own actions. If Snow White had not encouraged Marian to run off with her 'True Love'  _George_ , my son would not have been ripped from my arms, held down and forced to watch as another man and six of his men knocked the hell out of me, would not have had to witness his mother willfully break her marital vows right in front us,” he rants, the shame and embarrassment and familiar rage rising up-up-up as he educates her on his fucked up life.

He breathes heavily for a minute, reigning himself back in as he finishes quietly, “No, my queen, it is not you with whom my vendetta lies.”

The knife presses a little harder against his skin, and then she tries to jerk it away, but he feels it - feels her hand trembling through the steel of the blade, so his hand reaches up and snatches at her before she can pull back.

He holds her small wrist tightly in his grip, and she holds steady to the knife - he is proud of her for this, for keeping some sense about her when he so obviously has none. He angles the knife to the pulse point on his neck and starts to press her hand forward, deeper, deeper - the tip of the blade painful, and then he feels it start to split his skin, the pain stinging and he is millimeters from the dark, still of death, but suddenly her fingers open and the knife falls awkwardly from her grasp as she breathes, “ _Stop-stop, Robin - stop_.”

He closes his eyes, emotions trying to bubble up and out and he will not - he will not lose control again. It has been two years and he is _handling_ it, he is. He’s just fucked up and confused after almost losing Roland this week, after getting attached to a woman so far outside his league he can’t even think straight anymore.

He let’s go of her wrist and his hand slips back beneath the water, and he feels defeated - adds it to the list alongside foolish, idiotic, and rejected. He fishes the knife out and sets it on the side of the shallow pool.

He can still feel her there behind him and he tries not to wonder what she will do. Perhaps she will just leave him be, will go to Roland and comfort him, something she is so very good at. Or maybe she will share a few stories with Freya at the fire, a bit of an evening tradition the two of them have started.

 

Perhaps she’ll go fuck Will.

 

He swallows and the saliva clicks in the back of his throat. He absolutely will not think about that.

The sound of the water being disturbed has him opening his eyes and sitting up straighter, a rush of shock running down his spine as she lowers her naked body into the spring beside him.

His body shakes. It is so dark he can barely make out the outline of her body. He doesn’t know what is expected of him and is too raw from his reopened past to think clearly, to understand what she’s telling him with this.

But thankfully, he doesn’t have to do much thinking at all.

She moves to him through the warm water, her lower half submerged up to just under her breasts and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to look at her or not, not even sure if he should care about making the right or wrong decisions with her anymore.

She reaches for his shoulders and pulls herself into his lap, knees on each side of him on the ledge and he fights the urge to put his arms around her. Her hair is down, pulled to one side and curling from the humidity of the water, her eyes huge and dark in the moonlight as she strokes her hands down the sides of his neck, runs them across his shoulders and traces his collarbone.

She drops her forehead to his, brushes her nose against his in a way he’s seen her do recently with Roland, and a shot of affection races through his gut. Her hands run down his arms, and dive beneath the water to his hands, pulling them to her body, placing them on her narrow waist as she pulls herself tighter to him.

He lets out a shaky breath, reveling in the feel of her beautiful, wet, naked body as her chest presses into his, her hard nipples rubbing against him. And then she sinks down onto his lap, trapping his hard cock between their bellies as she slides forward and he lets out a deep, guttural moan.

“Jesus, Regina,” he whispers as his head falls back and he tries to gather himself.

Her lips fall to his throat and she’s placing hot sucking kisses against the sensitive skin there, and it feels so good, _she_ feels so good, he wonders for a moment if he actually did die. She slides her slick body against him, her hands trailing all over him, up into his hair and scratching softly, along the planes of his neck, down his arms and across his chest, her nails scraping lightly against his pecs before she flattens her hands and kneads his muscles, her hands drifting lower, lower.

Her hot mouth follows her hands, moving from his jaw to his neck, her teeth sinking into the crux of his shoulder and then down as she slides back a little to get her mouth on his chest. She nips and sucks and rubs and _hummms_ against him and all he can think is that she feels so, so, so perfect on him.

Her hands find his cock and he exhales harshly as she wraps her fingers around him. She tightens her thighs around his as she starts a slow stroke, her forehead touching his and they breathe each other’s air as she pumps him.

He’s panting within minutes, she good at this, really fucking good at this - sliding her hand up and down his length smoothly, twisting as she reaches the top and again as she sinks her hand back down. His hands have a mind of their own, sliding over her thighs, her hips, her arse, then up her smooth back, remembering to avoid her bad shoulder, as he tangles one hand into the dark hair at the base of her skull, holding her head to his.

“Oh god,” he moans softly when she swirls her fingers around the head of his cock, her thumb swiping around and around. It feels so good - she’s got him so worked up and her hands are magic and her beautiful eyes are focused on his as she touches him. And that in itself is a huge fucking turn on - that she’s purposefully looking him in the eyes as she strokes him and pulls his pleasure, showing him that she is in this moment with _him_ \- no one else, and how she knows that’s what he needs he doesn’t know, but he fucking loves her for it.

The hand he’s got on her waist is starting to grasp desperately at her, his brain trying to hold his body back from the edge - it’s been so long since he’s been touched this way by anything other than his own hand that he’s too ready, could spill at any second, and he tries, _tries_ to tell her this but she gives him this hot sexy smile and puts her lips to his ear.

“Robin,” she whispers, and his breath catches, “I want you,” - he moans - “I want you inside of me, fucking me so deep, making me come on your cock,” her lips are right against the shell of his ear as her hand pumps faster, faster, and his balls are starting to feel tight, he’s not going to last - “I am a queen and there is no one else I want” - he groans - “I want you to come in my hands” she murmurs, nipping his earlobe, “my mouth” - he can’t catch his breath - “anywhere you want” she moans hotly, and fuck fuck _fuck_ he’s going to come - is coming - fuck, god, and she keeps pumping, changes to quick, short strokes as his come spills between them, and he’s groaning so hard as he thrusts up against her and says her name thickly, _Regina_ , as she sucks at his neck and rubs her supple body against him until he finally slows, spent from her talented hand.

His arms go tight around her, pressing her whole body into him as he tries to catch his breath, buries his face in her neck and this embarrassing noise comes unbidden out of his throat -and _it is not a sob_ \- he is not crying - he’s just raw, he’s raw and he doesn’t know how to handle it and she feels so good and _so right_ pressed up against him like this.

He never wants her to move. Wants her to stay on him like this for the rest of his life. Because she is pure, beautiful perfection on him.

She strokes the back of his head, his neck soothingly and holds him tightly, not saying a word as he takes a few minutes to collect himself. He reluctantly loosens his arms, finally calm enough to face her, and as they pull back a little his eye catches a dark smear of his blood on her chest. He wets his hand and brings it up to rinse it from her, stroking across her soft skin lovingly. He remembers something he’s been wanting to tell her, to correct something the shepherd said, so he wraps his right arm around her waist tightly as his left hand comes up to frame her face. He looks deep into her eyes and says, “You may not have your magic right now, but you are so much more than that, Regina - you are so, so much more to me.”

She lets out a little shuddering breath as he says this and leans in to press a warm kiss to his cheek. She rubs the bridge of her nose against his again, and then pulls away, sliding from his lap and out of the water smoothly.

Robin follows, a little bit dumbstruck, a lot lovestruck, as he puts his clothes on and follows her back to camp. That night, she asks him to sleep on the pallet next to her again, and she once again takes his hand as they fall into slumber.

 


	9. The Parchment

 

 

Chapter Eight - The Parchment 

 

The next morning Robin wakes to hushed whispers and the soft giggles of his son. It is still early morning, but a nearby lantern is lit and as he sits up, his heart swells at the vision that greets him. Roland is in bed with Regina, propped up against the pillows, blankets wrapped all around them, sitting between the fold of her legs with a piece of parchment. Regina is holding an ink bottle in one hand and her other is around Roland’s smaller hand as she guides him and they write letters on the paper.

He freezes, not wanting to break the moment, and they continue for a few more letters, until Regina looks up to dip the quill and catches his eyes across the bed. She gives him a small, sweet smile, and he flat out grins back, earning a wink from her before she drops her gaze back to the parchment with Roland and they scribble some more.

Robin stares at them as Roland whispers excitedly to Regina, making adorable comments like, _This one looks like a boot!_ and _We_ _all_ _have this one!_  Robin stretches up a little to see what his son is pointing at, and sees that they have written a big, calligraphic R on the page and next to it, all three of their names: Roland, Regina, Robin, and Roland is pointing to the ‘n’.

 

Perfect. They are absolutely perfect.

 

He looks at the fine features of her face, her soft, black hair falling into her eyes, and the way her hand touches his son’s oh-so-gently and is floored at how much he can care for her in such a short amount of time. It makes his chest feel warm and he has to resist the urge to join them, to wrap himself around her as she tutors their son.

 _His_ son.

Jesus, Robin.

He’s got to stop it, he’s going to get hurt when she gets her magic back, when she leaves to go back to her _kingdom_ because she is a _queen_ and a _sorcerer_ and she has better things to do with her time than spend it in a tent with a thief and his motherless son.

That gets him up and moving, and Roland greets him with a happy “Papa! Look what ‘Gina and me did!” - Regina cuts in softly, correcting - “Regina and I” and Roland obediently restates his sentence the right way, still smiling, his dimples huge.

Robin gives them his most enthusiastic attention, sits on the edge of the bed carefully and takes the parchment when Roland shoves it at him. He inspects it with mock intensity as Roland chatters on, telling him all about his ‘letters’, and Robin’s hand lands absentmindedly on Regina’s un-blanketed ankle. He glances sideways at her, but she’s listening to Roland, or she’s pretending to, so he charges forward and rubs his thumb softly against the bone there, tracing it and swirling around lightly as his son switches topics and starts talking about what he and Freya have planned today. He strokes her soft smooth skin - how she keeps her legs free of hair he has no idea but sincerely loves it - and his hand ventures up a little higher, grazing the bottom of her shin. His fingertips stroke from the front of her leg around to the back then trace down to her heel - and she discreetly slides her foot _closer_ to him.

A little zing of excitement goes through him with this encouragement, and he rubs the back of her ankle, massaging it with his thumb and forefinger, then slides his hand up the back of her calf, up... up… up… until he hits the crux of her knee - half his arm is now up under the blanket and to anyone but a five year old it would be completely obvious what he’s doing but Roland takes absolutely no notice as he wiggles off the bed and runs to set the parchment to dry on the little table in the corner.

Robin’s hand rubs the back of her knee, kneading the flesh, stroking softly, and then slides around to her kneecap. He gives it a little squeeze, swirls his thumb around it, strokes down and then up her leg again in a long sweep, just barely digging his blunt nails into her skin to create a sharper caress. His hand hits her knee again and he boldly goes up, up, just a little more to her inner thigh, and he squeezes her softly and paints featherlight swirls across it. Gooseflesh breaks across her entire leg, he feels it under his fingertips and looks up, catching her eye and giving her a small triumphant smile. She purses her lips - he thinks she’s trying to fight a smile too - and she tilts her head to the side a little and flashes her eyes at him as if to remind him of propriety.

But she doesn’t pull back.

And Roland, he’s an angel, because he chooses that moment to announce he’s going to get breakfast because he’s _starving_ and with agreement from Robin, he’s out of the tent in a second.

 

Robin’s hand is still resting gently on the inside of her thigh, and now that they are alone, he’s actually not quite sure how to continue. He knows what he wants to do, wants to crawl on top of her and kiss her into tomorrow, get his hands up that slip and touch things further north of her sweet thighs, put his mouth, his tongue, _everywhere_ she will let him, but they don’t _do_ that...do they?

He rolls the dice and sees what he can get away with, shifting over onto his knees on the bed, his hand never straying from her thigh - he feels like once he stops touching her this spell will be broken, and he never wants that to happen. So he repositions himself so he’s facing her, pulls her legs, unfolding them until he is sandwiched between her calves. The blanket is still covering her past her knees, but now he’s got both legs to work with and his mouth fucking waters with the opportunities. He slides the hand on her thigh down, down, down, back to her ankle. He picks up her left foot and places it in his lap and starts to rub. His fingers knead into the pad of her heel, her arch, across the sole and to each individual toe. She has nice feet, the nails are painted bright red - that color makes him fucking hot - and they are smooth and uncalloused. His hands rub over the top of her foot, massaging the fine bones, and then move up to her ankle. He drops a kiss to the top of her foot as his hands move up, and hears her let out a soft laugh.

He looks up at her and grins, and she’s got this sexy, entertained smile smoothing her features, her eyes are dark and her full lips slightly parted - god that mouth of hers looks so sinful it makes him hard just looking at her.

He rubs her ankle, kisses the inside of it and moves up to work her calf. He works both hands around it, his thumbs pressing deep into the grooves where her different muscles meet, smoothing and rubbing expertly. He drops his head again as his hands smooth up her leg to her knee, and he places open mouthed kisses against her shin, working up, up, laving his tongue against the bend of her knee when he finally makes his way there.

She lets out this sexy, shuddery little breath and settles in against the pillows behind her, so that she’s sort of half-sitting up. He kisses her knee and then his hands go up, up further, until her toned thigh is between both his hands, and his own excitement is starting to get the better of him - his lust-filled brain calculating how far away his fingers are from her sex, wondering if she’s wearing undergarments, wondering if he’ll get to touch them, pull them down, slide his fingers, and **fuck** _-_ _concentrate_ Robin!

As his hands ascend, he slowly, slowly allows the blanket - and oh, look at that, her slip too - to move, rucking it up as high as he dares, which is indecently high considering his hands trace her entire thigh. He tends to her softly, stroking, kneading, his thumbs pressing circles into her firm muscle, and she lets her leg fall to the side a little - fucking - oh god she’s fucking _opening_ for him - christ - and his head drops immediately to her inner thigh and starts sucking kisses into the soft skin. He drags his tongue from mid-thigh up, up, up and hears her pull in a sharp breath above him. He doesn’t stop until he’s gone all the way to the dip where her leg meets her hip, and his gamble pays off - no undergarments at all, it seems.

He lets out a moan with the realization and nips at the skin there, blowing out a hot breath against the wet flesh that sends gooseflesh streaming down her thigh once again, a knowing _hmmmm_ escaping her lips. He can tell, without looking up at her, that she is smirking.

It nearly takes an act of god, but Robin places one more kiss to her sweet thigh and then leans back on his heels and starts the whole process over on her other leg.

She groans when she realizes his intention, but it is needy and when he looks at her she’s got this disbelieving look like she can’t believe he’d want to spend so much time on just her legs - but he grins at her, cocky and turned on, and says, “You have the most gorgeous legs I have ever had the pleasure of being between,” and she chokes out a laugh as she drops her head back to the pillows and throws one hand over her eyes. He chuckles and goes back to her legs, giving the right the same slow treatment he gave the left, only this time his cock is hard, and he knows she’s not wearing anything under the slip, and he desperately wants to know if she’s going to let him put his mouth on her.

He again reaches the crux of her hip and thigh, and he spends much more time there now, lets his tongue trace the indent from inside to outside, pushing up the blanket just high enough to let his lips get on her without exposing her center. He shifts so he’s on his hands and knees, slides the blanket up just a _tiny_ bit more, and runs kisses from the outside of her thigh back in, only he doesn’t stop there. When he reaches the inside he turns his head without hesitating, and runs his tongue in the crease between her thigh and mound.

Her breath stutters out and he takes that as encouragement, so he wets his tongue and slides it slowly through there again, breathing in through his nose and catching the scent of her for the first time. He moans out in pleasure, he-has-to-get-his-mouth-on-her, his mouth is watering and she smells amazing and he can’t believe she’s letting him do this. This time when he runs his tongue across her he purposefully lets it slide more to the inside, and he ends up licking against her full outer lip instead - and he can’t help it, his lips close around it and suck for a half a second and then release. He drops his head immediately back down and goes for it, slides the blanket up, up and - fuuuuuck she’s completely smooth here too - fucking christ, oh god - and he runs his tongue directly up the center of her.

 

She’s _dripping_ for him.

 

She inhales audibly, an _ohhhhh_ lacing her breath on the exhale, and he thinks this is good - she’s not stopping him, she’s not saying no, she’s wet and she’s not saying no - and that’s fantastic because now that he’s had a taste of her he’s not entirely sure he can ever stop.

His hands slide down the insides of both her thighs as he gives her another long lick, and then he’s spreading her legs wider, opening her sex to him and she _lets_ him - she fucking lets him and he’s so turned on he just might burst into flames. He slips his hands under and around the backs of her thighs, slides his knees back so he’s on his belly, and tugs her hot sex up to his mouth.

She lets out these quick little panting _huh-huh-huh_ noises as he licks at her, and when his lips suckle her petals into his mouth she finally gives him a full-on moan. His tongue runs up and down her, lapping at her, pulling her sweet nectar from her and she tastes so-fucking-good.

He runs his tongue between her lips, running around the outside and then applying pressure, stroking the flat of his tongue straight up the middle, and he can hear her breathing intensifying above him as her hips start to move a little, rotating against his mouth. He pulls back from her and is completely the lecherous git he knew he was as he just takes a second to look at her - and she’s fucking art - she’s gorgeous - she's swollen and wet and so pink and glistening it makes him exhale harshly against her, and she gasps when his breath hits her moist flesh. He dives right back in, this time his lips find her clit and and he sucks - her hips snap up, an _ohhh!_ tearing from her lips - and he flicks his tongue against her little bud as he continues to suckle.

He let’s her go with a slick, wet slurping sound and then goes back after her clit again, she’s so needy for him her hips are thrusting up to meet him, and he sets his tongue to work on her. He flicks, flicks, flicks against her, then switches to swirls, and she moans and says _yes-yes!_ on this sexy, high pitched breath, so he gives her more, applying a little more pressure as he whorls against her clit over and over and over.

He loves this, loves that he’s bringing her pleasure, that she’s _letting_ him do this for her, and he wants to see her face, wants to watch her when he finally makes her come - because he _will_ make her come - but the blankets are bunched up at her waist and he can’t see past it. He slides one hand out from under her thigh and goes right for it, grasping it quickly and pulling it off to the side, and then he can see her - the slip crinkled way above her waist - when did it get that far up? - and her gorgeous, flat, bare stomach comes into view and he basically fucking melts inside.

She’s gorgeous. Literally the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, _will_ ever see. And she’s letting him suck on her sex. _Him._ Robin-the-fuck-up-Hood.

 

He’s the luckiest bastard alive.

 

He places his hand on her hip to hold her down, letting out this little _mmmm_ of approval against her as he goes back to sucking, and she must enjoy it because she gasps out an _oh god_ and then one of her hands runs down to his, threading their fingers together.

She’s so warm against him, and he loves this, loves being pressed right up against her when she’s so aroused that she’s practically vibrating under him, loves the way her hand twists the sheet as she tilts her pelvis up to his mouth. He can see through the thin fabric of the slip that her nipples are peaked and he wishes he could suck on them too.

He pulls back for a second, swapping his thumb in to circle against her swollen clit, and he can’t stop himself from staring at his digit against her slick sex as he tells her, “Oh god Regina, I can’t stop,” he dips in, licks her opening, “Tell me how much you love it when I suck on your clit,” she breathes in a sharp _ya-yeah_ as the speed of his thumb increases and circles, circles, “I love the taste of you, could spend the rest of my life between your perfect thighs.”

He’s getting her there, can tell by the way her back arches when his mouth goes back to her, the way she’s flushed and panting, her fingers flexing on his again and again. He keeps his thumb against her clit as he slides his tongue lower, licking against the smooth skin below her opening, sliding back, back - almost to her rear opening - then forward again and _in_ , and jesus she’s so so wet and tight on his tongue that his cock gives a huge throb of jealous protest and he thrusts down into the bed for relief.

She’s moaning above him, letting out all kinds of hot little noises as his tongue delves inside of her as deep as he can - it isn’t much but he’s fucking loving it and she seems to be too - his thumb adds pressure to her clit and he switches to back and forth rubs.

“Do you like this, darling?” he pants, dips his tongue inside of her and back out, “Do you like my tongue inside of you?” and he has never wanted anything more in his life than to make her come on his mouth.

Her thighs start to quiver and she moans a drawn out _ooohhhhhhhh_ that borders on a growl, her hips thrusting up harder, and he dives back in, gives her several more quick thrusts with his tongue, switching back to circles and rubbing her clit vigorously with his thumb - and then he’s talking again, because she’s so fucking beautiful and if she comes he will consider his life a monumental success. “I love how you taste, could get drunk off you, want you to come on my face,” he breathes, and she _oooh ooohs_ as he rubs at her clit fast-fast-fast and he adds, “I’m so hard for you, fuck, _so hard_ \- gonna come in my pants with my tongue inside you when you come.”

And something clicks with her, because suddenly she’s arching up _hard_ against him, a long groan tearing from her throat, her neck arching, thighs shaking, fingers digging into his hand and he shoves his tongue inside her as his hands fight her thrusting hips. He stays at her, his thumb rubs-rubs-rubs, increasing in speed, flicking against her clit rapidly as she continues to climb, her voice going high, up an octave as she clenches on his tongue and hot fluid rushes from her. She’s still crying out, letting out these beautiful _ohhh-ohhh-ohhhs_ and he feels her spasm hard around his tongue again, and another rush of her pleasure seeps out, running down his chin as he switches to lapping against her, his thumb slowing down but still circling, and she twitches in pleasure, breathing heavily. He cleans her up, as she starts to descend, licks every last drop from between her thighs, his thorough tongue running the entirety of her, dipping into every crevice to sweep her sweet juices into his mouth.

As her body relaxes and her back comes down to the bed, his mouth goes lazy, giving her long, slow licks, placing sucking kisses and pulling gently at her outer lips _just because he can_. He reluctantly takes his mouth away from her sex, knowing that she’s too sensitive for now, and he drops kisses all over her mound, working his way up her to her abdomen - he’s been dreaming about her flat, perfect stomach since he last saw it, and he places soothing kisses along the toned planes of her silky skin. He’s caught up in her, so caught up in her that he could easily spend the rest of today covering every inch of her with his tongue.

There is a noise behind him, near the entrance to the tent, and he hears a voice call, “Oiy, Robin!” and they freeze - caught!

Her eyes widen and snap to his, and he greets her with the same fearful expression as he calls out, “In a minute,” but the voice continues, “Got that news you’ve been asking for - Much hasn’t made it back but Tuck is here and -”

He turns his head toward the tent flap. “Yeah got it! I’ll meet you round by the fire in a minute,” he says, throwing what authority he can into his voice while managing a hard on the size of Sherwood and the delicious, tempting skin of Regina’s naked stomach only a breath away.

“Alright, alright,” comes the reply, a little disgruntled, and then they are left with silence.

 

Robin bites his lips, turning his guilty gaze slowly back to Regina’s - for a second she looks mortified, and then just as quickly, the corners of her eyes crinkle and they both break into laughter, Robin dropping his forehead to her belly and living in the warmth of her skin as they shake and snicker at their _almost_ embarrassing situation.

When they get through their fit of giggles, Robin props his chin on her and says, “I suppose we had better get dressed,” and she nods as he reluctantly - _very_ reluctantly - disentangles himself from her, dropping one last kiss to her stomach as he slides back and onto his knees. He shifts off the bed to give her some privacy, adjusting himself as best he can and trying to will his erection down - _good-fucking-luck_.

He finds a clean shirt and swaps the one he’s wearing for it, rinses his face with a bit of water, then shoves on his boots, and when he turns back she is already working on her boots, her long hair draped over one shoulder as she sits and pulls them on. Her neck and cheeks are a bit pink, flushed from her orgasm, and _fuck_ she’s pretty - his cock uncomfortably reminds him that it has been completely ignored, throbbing against his trousers as he presses the heel of his palm down against it.

Maybe this is the state he’ll be in forever now - constant arousal - now that he knows what she tastes and looks and smells like, he’s not sure his dick will ever be soft again.

And that’s completely fine with him.

She glances up at him through her long dark lashes and a knowing smile graces her features, her dark eyes looking him up and down, pausing on his tented groin as she purses her lips at him and says, “I thought you said you were going to come with your tongue inside me?”

Oh god, she’s so fucking filthy.

A groan escapes him and she laughs, standing and walking toward him, all the air and elegance of a queen in her stride. She leans in close and strokes her hand down his neck, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, “I guess you’ll just have to put it in me again,” and then she smooches his cheek and walks right out, laughing as he literally drops down to his knees and moans his needy frustration into the empty tent.

 


	10. The Solution

 

 

Chapter Nine - The Solution 

 

It is _not_ good news.

Tuck has returned from the trip to the eastern borders, but Much has been seriously wounded, one of Prince John’s guardsmen getting the better of him in a sword fight. Tuck explains that they got Much as far as Brentwater but were forced to leave him with the healer there when Prince John’s men caught word of their presence.

Robin is furious - this carelessness is not acceptable. His men are good fighters, well-trained rogues, even Much - though he is young he is educated in thievery and knows how to get out of a fight and into hiding when he needs to. Robin steps closer to Tuck and confirms what he suspected - the man reeks of liquor.

“How bad is it?” Robin presses, “Where was he struck by the blade?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t look good,” Tuck replies, stepping back from Robin, trying to hide the evidence of his stupidity. “Got him in the side - the wound looked deep.”

Robin curses and scrubs his hands over his face, looking up to the sky in annoyance. Can they not get one, single break?

It’s a full day’s ride to Brentwater, and Robin doesn’t even know for sure that they can make it before the boy dies. If it is as serious as Tuck says, he may already be dead. He looks to Regina, sees her calm mask firmly in place as her dark eyes slide to his, and this spurs him into action.

 

They’re going. They’re going right fucking now.

 

They grab a few rations and blankets and bring the big war horse around, saddling him for the journey. Robin grabs his bow and John hands him a large, sheathed knife, nodding to Regina in indication. Robin claps John on the shoulder in thanks and starts toward her, offering her the blade, which she promptly adds to her belt. She’s got her hair double braided again and it has his trousers tightening - there’s something about the way she wears it like that that just turns him the fuck on.

When Freya brings Roland to say goodbye, he goes straight past Robin to Regina, and she crouches and lifts him up in her arms, practiced and natural as if she does it every day. Roland puts his little arms around her, buries his face into her neck and speaks softly to her as she murmurs reassurances to him that all is well, they will return very soon, he has nothing to fear. She sets him down and he gives her a big kiss as he says _I love you, ‘Gina_ , and her coffee colored eyes go wide and she looks up to the heavens, blinking quickly, whispering, _Love you too, sweetheart,_ before standing and going directly to the horse and hoisting herself up.

Roland turns to go back to Freya and Robin tosses a “Hey now, wait just a moment!” to him as Roland sheepishly turns back and hugs his papa, giving him a big kiss too and telling him he loves him. Robin lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he walks to the horse. Even his son is caught up in her.

She scoots forward in the large saddle as he comes up to the stallion, sliding her feet out of the stirrups to dangle a little awkwardly as he pulls himself up to settle in behind her. It’s a snug fit but not uncomfortable - the horse is huge and apparently so was the rider who had him before the shepherd. Robin’s chest is flush to Regina’s back, groin tight against her backside - the universe is fucking teasing him with this - and as his arms go around her she slides her feet back and hooks them around his calves to steady herself as they take off at a fast trot. She is perfectly balanced and poised in front of him, and he’ so thankful that she is a good rider - it will make the long ride much more comfortable.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They’re a few miles in and everything is fine. It’s just that, well, the fastest way to reach their destination is to trot the horse as much as possible, giving him a few walking breaks in between. But this means that Robin is posting in the seat to reduce the jolting from the big animal’s stride, which has him rubbing his groin up against Regina’s glorious arse every other second.

It’s... _distracting_ to say the least.

They slow to a walk to give both the horse and his hard, stiff cock a break, and she settles back against him better, relaxing into the sway of the animal.

“You’re a decent rider,” she says, and he guesses compared to her, ‘decent’ is probably pretty good. “Did you ride much, before turning outlaw?”

“Quite a bit actually,” he says, “Part of the Locksley’s pride and joy was in breeding long distance racing horses, so I was riding at an early age.”

“Locksley?” she sounds surprised and turns her head to the side, trying to see him.

“Yes, I take it you’ve heard of us?” he cringes, embarrassed by his family’s legacy.

“When I was young I had a horse that was bred by the Locksley’s - he was the greatest animal I ever had the pleasure of saddling,” she says and she sounds sad, her emotion coming through her voice.

“Well now, that’s a small world,” he laughs softly. “What was its’ name?”

“Rocinante,” she says softly, with reverence.

“Ah,” Robin replies quickly, “One of Hwin’s?” and Regina jerks around to look at him.

“How did you know that?”

Robin laughs and can’t help squeezing his arms a little against her waist, “I rode many of Hwin’s offspring - all spirited, determined animals - it makes sense that one of them was such a good fit for you,” he says kindly as she shifts back around, facing forward.

The rest of the day goes by quickly - they make good time with the big horse who, Regina tells him, his son has named Jerry for absolutely no other reason than Roland insists _because that’s his name_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They hit Brentwood at dusk, the late summer day giving them the extra daylight they need so they don’t have to search for the healer in the dark. He lives on the outskirts of the village, in a modest but well kept little house that sits alongside a stream that is curtained with trees. Robin dismounts first, swinging down from Jerry and reaching up immediately for Regina. She takes his hand and lets him help her down, and he knows she doesn’t the need the help so it sends a little thrill of pride through him that she lets him help her anyway. They head up to the cabin and greet the healer, and thankfully he doesn’t seem to recognize either Robin or Regina as he leads them to a small room at the back of the house where he has been tending to Much.

The wound is _bad_.

Much is shirtless on the cot with large bandages wrapped around his side, a plethora of herbs and salves on the little table next to the bed, but Robin can see that the blood is already bleeding through the fresh dressings. There is a rotten smell in the air around them and Robin immediately knows - Much is going to die.

He steps quietly up to the boy, for that’s what he is - a boy of barely fifteen with all the innocence of the world suddenly stripped from him. Much has suffered immensely in his few years - first at the hands of Peter Pan and now it seems, through Robin’s neglect. Robin takes his hand and sits next to him, fighting the hot wetness of guilt in his eyes as Regina looks over the healer’s medicines.

“Much,” Robin says quietly, and the boy stirs, his brow wet with perspiration and his skin hot to the touch - infection.

“Much, my boy,” Robin tries again, and Much opens his eyes and turns them to him.

“I’m sorry,” Much gasps out to him, and Robin tightens his grip on the boy’s hand, cuts him off.

“I’m sorry too,” Robin replies, because they are both with fault. “The green fairy, Much, do you remember her? Tinker Bell?” and Robin hates that he’s cutting so quickly to the point of their visit but is fearful of waiting too long, fearful the boy will die any minute.

Much’s brow furrows but he nods to Robin, so he continues, “Do you know where to find her? It is imperative that I find her,” he finishes, and this devastated look comes over Much’s face, making Robin’s heart drop into his stomach.

“Gone,” Much gasps out, moaning a little with the pain and sucking in a sharp, shaking breath.

Robin catches movement in the corner of his eye as Regina’s head snaps to attention.

“What do you mean, gone?” Robin presses and prays _no-no-no-no_.

“The pirate, Hook - she went with him, back -” Much gasps again “- back to Neverland.”

Regina cuts in from across the room, “That shouldn’t be possible. How?” her voice is strong and laced with suspicion.

Much startles a little when she speaks, turns his face towards her, and if possible, goes even more pale. His hands start to shake as he pulls them from Robin’s grasp and Robin recognizes what has come over him - fear. He clasps his hands over his chest protectively, eyes wide as he looks at her.

“Much,” Robin pulls the boy’s chin toward him, away from the queen, and Much has a few tears slipping from his eyes, “It’s alright, my boy. It’s alright. The queen heard of your bravery and wanted to see for herself how such a young lad could defeat so many of Prince John’s men,” he lies, but he does it well, and Much calms a little beneath Robin’s soothing words, trusting Robin, so he pushes, “How did they leave for Neverland?”

Much coughs and moans with the pain it elicits, his neck straining as Robin leans forward to hold the boy steady. He’s not going to last much longer.

“She gave up her fairy powers,” Much whispers, his eyes going a little round as he retells the memory. “I saw it Robin, she, she used a wand and took her magic out and put it into Hook’s ship, and then they sailed away together on it.”

“You’re sure?” Robin asks him, they cannot afford to be wrong in this.

Across the room Robin can see the rapid rise and fall of Regina’s chest. Panic, he thinks. _Fuck_.

Much nods, his gaze sliding over to the queen then back to Robin, blatantly wary of her. “It was beautiful,” he says softly and his eyes look far away.

Robin rubs his hand across the boy’s brow as the healer comes back into the room. “He should rest,” he says quietly, and Robin nods - Regina is already on her way out the front door of the cabin by the time he crosses the room and gives his thanks, his goodbye to the healer. He leaves a large pouch of coin on the kitchen table as he leaves; it won’t save the boy but perhaps it will encourage the healer to help his men if future need be.

 

When he exits the cabin Regina is already mounted and turning the big horse homeward, and he has this little rush of panic that she’s going to ride off without him, so his steps are aggressive as he rushes toward the horse and pulls himself up behind her, not giving her a chance to protest. She shifts forward for him but doesn’t relinquish the reins, or the stirrups for that matter, and she kicks the horse into a full gallop as they take off into the night.

She drives the horse, faster, faster, and he can feel her chest heaving with ragged, irregular breaths as he holds tightly to her waist, his chest flush up against her. He rubs his hands across her stomach, down her thighs and back up, trying to calm, to soothe her, but she just kicks the horse harder and they fly down the road, Jerry’s large hooves thundering as they speed into the darkness.

She continues on like this, pushing the horse, and Robin can feel that her breaths are not slowing, she’s not calming down and they’re going to ruin the horse or get themselves killed if they keep this up, and so he switches tactics, wraps one arm tightly around her middle and brings the other up and across her shoulders, across her chest, squeezing, tightening until he has her pressed so tight into him he’s not sure where he ends and she begins. He puts his mouth to her ear, says over the heavy thrum of the hoofbeats, “It’s alright, darling,” and “I’ve got you,” and “Please,” and then suddenly she is pulling up sharply on the reins, Jerry sliding to a quick stop, Robin and Regina lurching forward in the saddle with the change in momentum.

She disentangles herself from him and jumps down immediately, stalking off into the forest, her hands grasping at her head, back stiff and strides long as she moves away. Robin sits in the saddle for another beat, unsure what to do, doesn’t know if he should give her space or comfort, but there’s something in him that is always pulling, pulling him to her so he drops down from the horse and goes after her.

“Regina, wait,” he says coming up on her quickly, reaching for her hand. She jerks it away and spins to face him, her frustration, anger, and disappointment written all across her face.

“Don’t -” she says, her eyes flashing.

“We’ll find another way, another fairy, something, anything - I promise you, we will find another way,” he says reassuringly, looking into her raging eyes and feeling the heat of her emotions on him like the warmth from a flame.

“I _have_ tried other ways!” she exclaims, “Do you think for _one second_ that I would be standing here with _you_ if I hadn’t exhausted every single other option there was? Really, Thief, how big is your ego?” her voice is full of venom and he knows, _knows_ she’s just misdirecting at him, unleashing because he is here and she needs to let it out.

He doesn’t mind, he will take it - all of it - her anger, hurt, frustration, because he doesn’t care about that, he loves her and he will find a way to restore her magic if it kills him, if he has to sell his soul to Hades and then steal it back he fucking will, because he _loves her._

 

And suddenly he’s not afraid to say it.

 

The words fall out of his mouth before he has the chance to choke them back, knowing _this is not the time_ , but he’s an idiot when it comes to her and he can’t stop it.

“I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, and she takes a step back.

“Stop it,” she growls, her voice menacing.

But he stupidly charges on, “Regina, we _will_ find a way to release you from this cuff - this, this prison. I swear to you, I will not stop until we have the solution.” As he steps into her space, he whispers, “Darling, I love you - trust me, we _will_ make this right.”

Her reaction is not quite what he’s hoping for. As he takes another step closer to her, her face twists in what looks like agony, and she says “No,” loudly, her voice shaking, but he keeps coming at her. It suddenly hits him that he’s never had his lips on hers - has had his hands, his mouth on her, his tongue in her, but has never shared the intimacy of a kiss and now he’s on fire with it. He _needs_ to kiss her, _needs to_ or he’ll die with this urgent, rushing, lightning that’s coursing through his veins.

“Stop it, you idiot,” she repeats, her voice panicked, and her eyes are wide with warning as he reaches for her, wraps one hand around the nape of her neck and the other at her waist.

He takes a beat to look straight into her eyes, gives her a second to wrench away from him but she doesn’t, so he tightens his grip and pulls her lips to his, her hot mouth opening immediately as she tilts her head for him, accepting his tongue as it duels with hers.

 

Suddenly a white, hot, pulsing light explodes around them - feelings of pure desire and love and need filling the air, creating a deafening _ >boom< _ that echoes off the trees all around them.

 

Regina immediately makes this terrified noise in her throat and rips herself from his grasp, shoving him hard as she backs away - her eyes huge, accusing, alarmed.

Her hand goes to her lips, touching them, covering them and she whispers, “What-have-you-done?” but Robin has no idea at all what has just happened.

He watches dumbstruck as her hand drops from her mouth to the leather cuff, and with almost no effort, she tugs it off her arm.

Robin’s jaw drops open.

 

Holy fuck.

 

They just -

he just -

and they just -

 

And now her cuff is _off_.

 

He breaks into a grin, ecstatic - he has no idea what’s going on but he is so fucking happy for her he can’t help it, he wants to hold her and he reaches for her again, wanting celebrate this huge victory with her in his arms, wants to put his lips on hers and kiss the happiness he’s feeling right deep down into her soul.

She looks completely bewildered as she drops the cuff to the forest floor, but as he moves toward her again her gaze snaps to his, suspicion infecting it. Then she comes at him, wielding John’s big knife in her hand, and she reaches for his left wrist harshly, slices open the cuff of his sleeve and tears it to his elbow.

“The fuck-?” leaves his mouth as she manically switches to the other sleeve, slicing the fabric and ripping it wide, and she cries out - her hand an iron grip on his wrist as she stares at his tattoo.

He stays still, has no idea what is happening, what to do as he feels her hand start to tremble violently against his skin.

“Regina,” he whispers softly, “What’s the matter?” He brings his other hand up and smooths it over hers.

She drops his wrist as if she has been burned, backing up quickly with her hands out defensively in front of her as she brings her tortured eyes to his.

“No,” she says quietly, shaking her head “no, no, no.”

“What is it? What can I do? What do you need me to do?” he pleads. She’s genuinely starting to scare him now.

 

Her eyes are wild, tears brimming in them as she grits her teeth and says, “You need to forget about me.”

There is a swirl of purple smoke, and he lunges for her but his hand grasps only air.

 

And then she is gone.

 

 

 


	11. The Separation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning - some gore here.

 

 

Chapter Ten - The Separation 

 

It’s been two days.

But it feels like two years.

It’s like he’s just been woken from a beautiful dream by having a bucket of icy river water dumped over his head.

His chest aches with the loss of her. More acute even, than when he lost Marian.

She sends no word, no goodbye, does not even come to see Roland, who glares at his father suspiciously as he asks for his ‘Gina again. Robin grumbles at him, telling him to eat his supper, but Roland is just as upset as he is and the two Locksley men turn to pouting silence as a balm for their broken hearts.

 

* * *

 

 

Much rides into camp the following day, looking fit as a fiddle, and Robin’s shocked expression has the boy laughing and coming right up to clasp arms with him.

Robin grasps him tightly, looking at him like he’s seeing a ghost as he stutters out, “How?”

Much leans forward, a small, sincere smile gracing his boyish features as he says, “Thank you for sending the queen to heal me, I don’t know how you convinced her that an ordinary bloke like me was worthy of her fine touch, but I’d be dead without you, Robin,” and then he’s off chatting with the other men, lifting his shirt and showing them his side, which is completely healed, barely has any scar at all, looks like it is several years old.

Robin’s heart spasms so hard in his chest that he stumbles, his eyes hot as he strides quickly away, back to his tent. She’s killing him - she’s not even here and she’s fucking killing him.

He has to contact her somehow, has to see her, so a few days later he saddles Jerry and takes a pack of supplies, determined to gain an audience with her in Misthaven. He rides hard, takes very few breaks and makes it to the Enchanted Forest in record time. But as he crosses the border into her kingdom, there is a sudden push against him - like a thundering wind from the strongest of storms, and it is so intense that neither he nor Jerry can take another step forward.

 

But it doesn’t stop him from trying.

 

He works and works and works at it, damn near circling her entire kingdom while he searches for a weak spot in her shield - for that’s what it is, he _knows_ that’s what it is - but he can find none. After a week of trying and failing, he is suddenly come upon by Regina’s Black Guard - four knights in black armor, all mounted with halberds and staves and looking extremely displeased with him.

He opens his mouth to speak but one of them cuts him off.

“Her Royal Highness has requested that you halt your attempts to enter her kingdom,” he says haughtily.

Robin frowns at him. Who the fuck is this man to tell him what to do?

“My apologies,” he starts, “but if the queen would grant me an audience for just-”

The knight cuts him off again. “Desist immediately or the queen has authorized the departure of your head from your neck,” the man says, and there is a chill to it that lets Robin know that the threat is not made in jest.

Robin scrubs his hand down his face. _Fuck_.

 

This isn’t going to work.

 

She’s being so difficult and she doesn’t have to be. It doesn’t have to be like this.

Robin nods his acquiescence but throws in, “Tell her I will wait forever, if I must,” and the queen’s knights turn away and head back through the barrier as Robin turns Jerry for home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes him three weeks but he finally finds a rider who is willing to take a message to the ‘Evil’ Queen. He’s a lad from up north with a funny accent and hair the color of fire, but he’s honest and clever and as Robin tells him the plan, he thinks he can trust him to successfully deliver the documents.

It’s not his last shot, far from it - Robin will try until he dies if he has to - but it _is_ the last good idea he has right now, and so he’s really hoping it works.

He takes the parchment from so many weeks ago, the one that Roland and Regina wrote together with their names scrawled across the page, and rolls it carefully. He needs to remind her of what they had, _have_ , if only she will allow it.

He hands it to the young man, Calum he’s called, who slides it into a hard leather tube to protect it during the long journey. At the last second Robin tears off another piece of paper, scratching his quill quickly across it before he can change his mind, and then he slips it into the tube as well. Calum caps it and is off, Robin’s future set carefully in his hands.

 

_My dear Regina,_

_I don’t know what’s happened and don’t pretend to understand. Perhaps you are tired of me, I am well aware that I am damaged at best, and who is a common thief to a queen, anyway?_

_But my feelings for you were,_ _are_ _real._

_And when we were together, I felt that our love was true - it felt like a second chance… for both of us._

_I will wait for you forever, my darling._

_Yours,_

_-_ _Robin_

 

 

* * *

 

 

It is over a month before Calum returns to Robin, the autumn leaves have turned red and yellow as they start to depart from the large trees in Sherwood. Robin is relieved to see him, was concerned he’d cost the poor man his head.

As Robin greets him, Calum gives him this look that tells him he will _not_ be venturing back to the Enchanted Forest any time soon, and Robin can’t blame him. He loves Regina but isn’t a fool, knows that her wrath and temper are not something to be trifled with.

Calum confirms that the queen received his gifts, saw her take the parchment himself before he was carried off to the dungeon to face what he thought was certain death. Robin cringes a little, feeling guilty. But then Calum reaches up to the pack on his saddle and pulls out a sack, handing it to Robin quickly and says, “Not in front of the children,” then he swings back up on his horse and trots off.

Robin is left standing on the edge of camp with the strange, heavy sack, and a rush of excitement runs through him. She’s sent him a gift. He’s too excited to wait, checks quickly to be sure that his son is nowhere nearby, and he upends the bag and dumps the contents on the ground.

 

He startles, steps back immediately - _fuck_.

 

It's a severed head.

A severed head with John’s - Regina’s - large knife sticking out of the top of it.

 _Christ_ , what poor bloke deserved such treatment?

 

He kicks at it with his foot, turning it so he can see the face - and everything stops.

It’s George.

It’s fucking George of Nottingham and _Jesus_ this woman will be the death of him.

 

She’s killed George and sent his head to Robin - the one thing he told her he needed in order to complete his quest for vengeance.

It’s sick, and he _knows_ it’s sick, but he gets hard for her, wants her more, fucking _loves_ her more for her perfect, thoughtful, amazingly twisted gift.

He starts to laugh, and it’s the first time he’s really done so since she left, and soon he’s doubled over with his hands on his knees, cracking up and wiping tears from his eyes as he tries to catch his breath.

Will comes over and sees the head, immediately gasps out, “Fuck Robin! Who’s ‘at?” and Robin just keeps laughing, gasps out _George!_ between breaths, and when realization hits, Will is laughing too, and then John is joining them and they’re all chortling at the head of the bastard on the ground at their feet.

With deep breaths they finally come down, still chuckling a little, clapping hands and exchanging meaningful looks - his friends know what happened, lived through the ruin of Robin and all that it entailed, and Robin feels lighthearted and high.

John leans down, puts a foot on the head and pulls his knife from it, wiping it on the grass. When it’s clean he hands it to Robin and says, “I suppose she’ll be needing this back…” and Robin takes it, determination surging through him.

Protection spell be damned - he is **going** to get her back.

 


	12. The Plan

 

 

Chapter Eleven - The Plan 

 

The snow is a light, peaceful blanket upon the earth when Robin is finally ready.

His plan is simple but it has taken quite a bit of time to set into motion. He’d had to find the right gift - the _exact_ right one, had to have custom items made for it by the very best craftsman, had to do it all without getting caught - and now he’s got to figure out how to give it to her.

He’s stolen her a horse. But not just _any_ horse - the last descendant of Hwin - a beautiful chestnut named Cervantes with a white blaze and two white socks, and a bright spirit that he hopes will remind her of her beloved Rocinante. Cervantes is a champion. A very, very expensive champion with a very, very peeved owner now scouring the countryside for him.

But it will be worth it if he is able to set his eyes on her pretty face - to be allowed to press his lips to hers one last time.

He pays an enormous sum of gold to get one of her stable boys to work with him. Well, actually Prince John pays an enormous amount of gold, he just doesn’t know it. Robin had had to think up some ridiculous way to lure the boy outside of her protective bubble and then used every negotiation tactic he’d ever learned to sway the lad - his loyalty to the queen is strong, and Robin can’t tell whether it’s from fear or love. Perhaps both.

Either way the boy has agreed to his plan, and Robin _knows_ that he’s hitting below the belt, he is absolutely not playing fair _at all_ when he sets the plan in motion, but fair is fucking stupid and he’s a thief - fair is not in his vocabulary.

He’s waiting by the edge of her kingdom when he sees the boy on the other side, riding up swiftly on his own shabby horse to meet with Robin.

Robin dismounts Cervantes and unhooks Jerry from him, letting the larger horse wander off to find some tall grass poking up through the snow. Cervantes looks magnificent in his custom tack - Robin has spent a ridiculous amount of coin on it, commissioning the hardware to be plated with gold, the leather to be dyed to hunter green with beautifully detailed interwoven branches carved into the entirety, and Robin was borderline obsessive when it came to making sure it was shaped and cut to fit her exact measurements. The saddle and bridle are crowned though, by the tactful placement of a triple R symbol, the three letters connecting over each other and embossed into the leather in calligraphy that is an exact copy of her handwriting.

He shifts Roland better into the saddle, pulling his head to the side and kissing him as he does so.

“You be a good lad now, yeah?” he asks him softly, and Roland nods enthusiastically, overly excited with the prospect of seeing his ‘Gina. “You listen to Regina, and stay out of trouble until I arrive. And Roland,” he says, his tone serious, prompting his son to give him his full attention, “if you get scared, you hide - as soon as I am able I will find you, my boy.” Roland nods again, a wide smile on his face and his deep dimples warming Robin’s chest.

He wishes he could see her face when Roland delivers her the horse, but it’s probably better that he isn’t there.

 

Because when she realizes that he's purposefully exploiting his son to put a chink in her armor, she’s going to be positively _furious_.

 

But he doesn’t care. He knows deep down in his soul that this is going to work. So he smiles at Roland again, gives Cervantes an ear scratch and pats him, tells him, “Work your charms,” and then he meets with the stable boy. The boy looks so nervous he’s a little bit green, and Robin can take no chances, so he confirms the plan with him, the boy stuttering and agreeing through it, and then Robin pulls out his little piece of insurance.

He walks quickly back to a large tree behind him and pulls the boy’s sister from behind it, her hands tied and mouth gagged - he’s not hurt her, nor will he, but the boy looks too skittish to be trusted entirely, and mistakes _cannot be made_.

The boy’s eyes go wide as he reassures Robin that he will deliver Roland to the castle, he will not fail him, and Robin nods his agreement as he plays with the dagger at his waist. The boy’s eyes flick to it and then back to Robin, and Robin sees steel resolve enter the boy and he breathes a little easier, he is certain he will not betray him now.

Robin feels a little nervous as Roland walks Cervantes toward the edge of the Sherwood border. This will either work, or it won’t. He hasn’t tested the barrier to see if Roland can actually go through it - didn’t want to tip her off - so he’s guessing, praying that even though Regina has left _him_ , she still can’t say no to his boy.

 

And he is _right_.

 

A huge grin splits his face as Roland rides the magnificent horse straight through the barrier, not a whisper of wind to hinder him. Roland waves a quick goodbye to him and then the stable boy is with him, leading his horse off in the direction of the castle of the queen.

He lets the girl go immediately, her little pony stationed close by as he thanks her and gives her a generous amount of gold and sends her on her way.

The boys should reach the castle tomorrow, all he has left to do is wait. So he makes camp near the edge of the forest, gives Jerry some extra grain and water, buttering him up for what is going to be one hell of a ride. He tries to think through what he will say to her, but nothing seems quite right. He thinks of saying _I love you_ , but that didn’t exactly work out the last time he said it, so perhaps not. Maybe he shouldn’t say anything, should just pull her into his arms and _show her_ how much he loves her, but that seems far-fetched as well. He gives up on it and decides to just let it happen, let his gut decide what to do in the moment. Typically he never enters a place without having a backup escape plan, but in this case, he doesn’t care to escape. If she will not have him then she can throw him out or kill him, but at least with her, he knows his son will be properly cared for. She can give him so much more than Robin ever could.

 

 

* * *

  


The next day he’s leaning against a tree next to the barrier, happens by sheer luck to be looking right at it when it occurs - he sees a shimmer in front of him, spanning up into the sky and as far as he can see each way. Then it dissolves into nothingness.

He grins devilishly.

He jumps on Jerry and rides unhindered across the border, pushes the beast as hard as he can without being cruel, determined to make it to her before she changes her mind.

 

The game is on.

 

 


	13. The Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning - violence here.

 

 

Chapter Twelve - The Queen

 

He is accosted by her guard before he even makes the castle gate - they are waiting and easily overtake him. He doesn’t put up much of a fight, gets one or two good hits in when one of them pokes fun at Jerry, but otherwise he’s content to let them take him to her.

He is thrown, quite literally, at the foot of her throne in a large hall and he just barely catches himself from cracking his face on the stones beneath him as he rolls a little. Her guardsmen force him up and onto his knees in front of her.

 

And - _oh god -_ she looks so, so good.

 

She’s wearing this long sleeve royal blue velvet dress, high cut in the front with a narrow vee that’s trimmed with about ten thousand gleaming white diamonds, which runs straight down and forms a wide belt around her waist. Her hair is up, twisted prettily back and off her face, tucked in in waves to keep it high and off her neck to show off the high collar of the dress. Her face is made up, dark eyeshadow and bright red lips, and Robin licks his own lips in anticipation of her.

She’s leaning back in her throne, long legs crossed in front of her, a look of calm annoyance on her face as her guards present him to her.

“What is it you want, Thief?” she snaps at him.

 _You,_ he thinks but bites his tongue, he needs to play his cards right.

“Merely to return something that belongs to you, Your Majesty,” he replies carefully, letting his eyes roam wantonly over every inch of her. He wants her to notice him watching her as he drinks her in, wants her to be well aware of the effect she has on him.

“And what, pray tell, is that?” she replies, looking slightly intrigued but still mostly bored and irritable.

He makes to move but her guards hold him tight, and he shrugs at her as if to state the obvious - he can’t give her anything if her guards don’t let go.

“Enough,” she commands them, and they drop their hold immediately, stepping off to the side as Robin regains his feet.

“It came to my attention several weeks ago that I had something of yours that I would like to return to you, and also, that you’ve something of mine,” he says softly, locking on her eyes and committing their color to memory. This could very well be the last time he ever sees her.

Her finely arched brows furrow, she is obviously not in the mood for games but he wants to draw this out, get one more minute, ten more seconds with her before he has to go without. He’s like an addict, needing just one more taste before he can function again.

“Get to the point,” she huffs, sitting up a little straighter, her bright blue fingernails scratching into the arm of her throne. And there it is, the crack in her calm facade that he’s been waiting for. Time to take off the mask, love.

He smirks as he quickly pulls her large knife from his belt and throws it at her. It >thwaks< and sticks into a large wooden pillar to the right of her large chair, purposefully close enough to shock but not enough to ever have hit her. He knows this will send her guards into immediate action - and he needs that - needs to break all this formality, get her off her game.

Chaos erupts all around them as he drops one guard, then another, fluidly handling his own dagger and dodging attacks from all around as more and more guardsmen come at him. He knocks another one unconscious, kicks one back and slices his throat as his neck is exposed, uses momentum to knock two more down and gets one with a throwing knife as he warns her, “Keep them coming Regina, I’ll kill every single one of them for the answers I’m deserved.”

 

And then suddenly, everyone is frozen in motion.

 

Everyone except her.

 

She is standing in front of her throne, fire raging in her eyes, chest heaving in fury as she stares at him; he's frozen in mid-throw, about to take down another guard, spattered with blood from the guardsmen that are bleeding out on the floor around him.

“How _dare_ you,” her eyes light with rage, temper overflowing as she repeats, screams, “ _How dare you!”_

He tries to speak, finds he is able, and his own temper erupts as he yells back, “What choice have you left me?!”

She pauses, obviously a little shocked at his audacity - he is certain no one ever yells at the queen. Her hand raises but then falls without punishment, so he takes the opportunity and blurts out, “If you don’t want _me_ it’s one thing - but to endear Roland to you and then take it away without a word, now that is truly cruel, Regina.” He says her name purposefully, wants her to understand that he sees through _the queen_. “Roland _loves_ you-” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“Don’t-you-think-I-know-that?” she says harshly, taking two quick steps toward him, her eyes blazing with confliction, tendrils of fire alight in her right palm. Then she catches herself and rights the facade, turning her back on him, and he lets out a groan of pure _want_ when he sees that the ultra low cut of her dress allows him to drink in almost her entire gorgeous back.

She half turns back to him, tipping her chin up in arrogance as she says, “The Evil Queen is well known for far worse cruelty than this, Thief - perhaps I shall educate you on the subject,” a dark look crosses her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes and Robin gives her a disapproving look.

Then he is moving, being swept backwards by her magic and he startles - almost misses his opportunity but sneaks it in just in time as he yells to her, “Don’t you want to know what it is you have of mine?” and he stops in mid air as her glare fixes on him from across the room.

“What could I possibly have that belongs to you?” she asks as she raises a hand to rub her brow, and he thinks she looks so, so tired now.

 _Oh sweetheart_.

“You’ve stolen my heart,” he says quietly, knowing she will hear him even though she is some distance away.

She narrows her eyes and gives him that look that goes straight into his soul, that look that makes his skin positively _ache_ to be against hers. Her expression goes painful, her eyes getting red around the edges and a vein puffs up a little in her forehead as he watches her fighting it, fighting so hard to hold back her emotions as she grits out, “You can’t steal something that has been given to you.”

And then he’s moving again, out the doors of the great hall, around and around through the castle corridors until he is finally dumped haphazardly into a dungeon cell.

 

He smiles as he takes a seat against the damp wall, smiles as he memorizes the guards’ routines, as he calculates times and watches for keys and picks out his targets. Smiles, knowing he will be out of here within the day.

He smiles because he is certain now, almost entirely, that she loves him too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
He is out of the dungeon by midday.

The first thing he does is locate her bedroom. It is key in his plans and he is certain it will remove the last tendrils of doubt that he has about her feelings for him. It really doesn’t take long. He studies the flow of people throughout the castle and heads where they don’t seem to. Her room is higher up, and well out of the way, so when he slides through the large heavy doorway, there is no one nearby to notice.

Her room is, of course, beautiful. It is decorated mostly in black but it is tasteful, with artwork of horses and abstracts and a few other trinkets that must mean something to her. He guessed that she was sentimental on the inside - but now he sees the proof.

There is a balcony, and a huge ornate hearth and matching four poster bed, and his body longs to lay in it with her. He can imagine her black hair fanned out across the white, silk sheets, imagines her riding him with the silk wrapped around her waist, the slippery fabric sliding against their bodies as she moves, and he has to tamp down the lustful thoughts before walking becomes an issue.

He heads to a large dressing table with an ornate mirror on it and starts opening drawers. He finds it on his second try - the parchment - both Roland’s _and_ his. He feels a rush of relief.

He pulls his parchment out, and having stolen his equipment back from the dungeon on his way out, he grabs an arrow from his quiver. He takes the parchment he wrote to her, holds it up to one of the posts of her bed, the one nearest the door so she will immediately see it when she enters, and he jams the arrow into it, pegging the note to her bed.

 

If that doesn’t send the message he doesn’t know what will.

 

He slips back out of her room and down the hallway. He has a bit of homework to do before he sees her next, and he needs to get the moment exactly right.

 

 


	14. The Push

 

 

Chapter Thirteen - The Push

 

 

It is late in the evening when the time finally comes. He is tucked back into a dark corner of a seldom used passage that leads off to the library, and while it is unpopular and relatively secluded, the adjoining hallway that leads from the great hall to the courtyard is heavily traveled.

He waits for her here. Knows that she will need an escape from the dramatics of the day, will need to occupy her mind elsewhere, away from everyone else. He guesses it's either the stable or the library, but decides on the latter due to the overcast sky and threat of snow.

He overhears plentiful conversation from the castle staff as they go about their chores, and they seem quite content with their little lives. Not a single person says anything remotely disrespectful of their monarch - in fact the opposite seems to be true - they discuss recent improvements in roads and buildings, of better trade with neighboring kingdoms and how the harvest has been the most plentiful in decades. Robin starts to wonder if, now that Snow White is dead, perhaps Regina is the only person who still thinks of herself as the Evil Queen.

 

It’s over an hour before he hears the tell-tale click of her heels on the stone floor - it is an unfamiliar noise to him but the confident, purposeful stride that goes with it is most definitely hers. The sun has set and the hallway has provided even more cover than he anticipated, there is only one lit torch and it casts vast shadows where large stone support pillars line the edges of the walls. He lurks in the darkness waiting for just the right moment - she’s moving quickly, unaware, and as soon as she takes one step past him, he pounces - snatches her around the waist, swings her quickly around and into the dark corner he was in. He claps one hand over her mouth to mute her startled yelp as he presses her stomach to the wall and throws his body against hers, and he feels a little bad - he’s used a bit too much force, forgetting that she is actually quite a small woman, it is purely her presence that makes her seem so substantial, as he crushes himself against her and elicits a little _oomph!_ from her covered mouth.

She fights hard against him - she’s scrappy, his Regina - but he’s got the advantage on her and after a short tussle he gets ahold of her hands, slapping them flat against the wall so she can’t do any of her fancy spell casting and turn him into a slug or something worse.

“It’s me, darling,” he breathes softly into her ear - in case she hasn’t figured it out, in case she is truly fearful. He remembers the Leopold incident and doesn’t want a repeat.

She calms under him, but is still strung tight - her hands pushing back against his as he holds them against the wall, and he knows the second he lets up she will make him pay for this.

He holds her tight for a few more beats, his hands over the top of hers, waiting for her to steady before he executes his plan. She’s got to _want it_ \- that’s the whole point he’s going to prove to her tonight - not that she loves him, not that she loves Roland, just the pure simple fact that she _wants_ to.

Because he knows, deep down to the very base elements of his heart, that she does. He saw it in her earlier today when she snapped - _don’t-you-think-I-know-that_ \- saw the reflection of his own pain at their separation in the way her eyes burned.

He softens the press of his body against her, letting her breathe a little easier, and he rubs his fingers softly against the backs of hers as he leans in, admits, “Had to see you, couldn’t stand another minute without you in my arms, Regina,” and he’s being so honest about this he hopes she doesn’t try to twist it on him, doesn’t ruin it with snark.

She doesn’t. She just breathes out a deep sigh and relaxes back against him a little, and it feels amazing. At least she will allow him this, allow him just a few minutes with her again.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” he says quietly as he leans a little to the side, tilting his head to try to see the profile of her face. It is dark but the torchlight allows him some of her features, and he thinks her eyes are closed. “I know you don’t want me here, maybe don’t want me at all, but I have to know, Regina - was it **all** just a game?”

 

He knows it wasn’t. _Knows_. But he has to get her there too, because he’s not sure she believes even herself in this.

 

“Of course it was,” she says, but he knows her now and she sounds rehearsed.

He lets out a slow breath.

Alright then, the hard way it is.

 

He lets go of her right hand but she keeps it against the wall. He takes a tiny step back, allowing a breath of space between their bodies, and he runs the fingers of that hand across the side of her neck and around to the back, ghosting over the strands of jewels that cross her back in place of actual fabric.

This dress, _Christ_. He’s underestimated this woman’s wardrobe. This dress knocks him right off kilter, makes him hard just touching the velvet, just skimming the edges of her skin where the low cut back allows it.

His hand reaches across and unhooks the strand of jewels - they are beautiful, definitely, but not as beautiful as her skin and he needs to touch her unhindered. The strands hang daintily off to one side as he strokes his hand down her spine, from the nape of her neck to the very bottom of the opening, and he’s deliciously close to her arse. It sends a shiver through her and he smiles.

Yes, that’s it, now.

He rubs his hand back up, his short, blunt nails scraping softly against her, and then he dips down again, this time running his fingers beneath the edge of the dress down the right side, greedily touching more of her, reaching the bottom edge again and his fingers indent in the dimples of her lower back and then slide lower still, hitting the top of her arse and digging in a little. He drops his mouth to the nape of her neck then, places soft light kisses there and straight down her spine, inch by inch until he reaches the bottom of the cutout, and then he wets his tongue and drags it up her.

Her head drops forward and her arms give a little, dropping her from her palms to her forearms as she braces against the wall, her back arched and arse thrust toward him.

She’s so gorgeous he wants to scream. Wants to come. Inside of her. On her. Wherever she will let him. Prays that she will let him.

 

He lets go of her other hand and slides both of his down, down, over the fabric of the dress and he can’t help it, he palms both cheeks of her arse and gives them a firm squeeze. Those perfect round globes have been taunting him, teasing him for forever, and he’s taking this opportunity to get his hands on her because he has no guarantees of a return visit.

He slides his hands around to her hips, and pulls her rear against his front - he is hard, so hard for her, has been hard for _months_ and he wants her to know it. Feel it. As he rubs his erection against her, she sucks in a breath and widens her stance a little.

 

Oh yes. That’s his girl.

 

He leans forward and drops sucking kisses against her shoulder blades, nipping the corners and gently tugging her hips back against him in a slow rhythm, rubbing his cock up the cloth covered cleft of her arse on each contact. She feels amazing. Would feel more amazing with no clothes on, but he’s got to take this one step at a time, he _cannot_ rush her, or he’ll fuck it all up again.

His hands slide up her body, smoothing across her abdomen and then up, up to grasp both breasts. The dress is relatively thin and he can feel her nipples peaked through it, easily locates them and flicks his thumbs over them and then pinches gently.

Her hips rock back against him of their own free will, and _now_ he thinks, now she’s ready for him to give her more.

He plays with her breasts for a few minutes, squeezing, lifting, bouncing them a little with his hands and tugging at her nipples through the dress as he presses hot kisses to her neck and shoulders, rubs himself against her backside. He wants her naked. He just wants her fucking naked but unless she starts stripping down on her own, he knows he’s out of luck.

With one last firm squeeze of her gorgeous tits, he slides his hands back down and goes for it - grabs her by the hips and spins her around, immediately crowding his body tight up against her, one thigh between her legs and his hands firm against her ribcage.

He immediately presses his forehead to hers - knowing if he gives her any space at all right now, she’ll run - she’ll disappear right out from under him. He slides his hands back up and over her tits, massaging them, stroking and rolling her nipples again as he kisses her cheek, her jaw line, down the side of her neck. Her arms fall to his biceps but she doesn't push, doesn't resist him, just holds steady. He wants her lips against his but not yet - _not yet_ \- his hips thrust against her lazily, and she bends her knee and slides her leg up along the side of his to give him more room.

 

Good girl.

 

His right hand travels down her body to her hip, swoops his hand down to palm her arse and tugs her pelvis against him a little harder. God that feels good. He could honestly come by just grinding against her like this - but this isn’t about him, it’s about her. So his hand continues south, sliding down and around to the front of her thigh until he reaches the slit in her gown where he dives in and gets his hand on her bare leg.

She breathes in sharply through her nose - she’s still unsure, he can tell, he _knows, he knows_ , but he’s working her up to it, going to get her where she needs to be, soon. His hand slides up and up, to the top of her thigh where he encounters the tiniest, laciest undergarment he has ever come upon in his life.

His cock jumps and a thousand lascivious images leap through his mind, the foremost being him fucking her with nothing but those still on, the center shoved to the side as his cock slides in and out of her, and he lets out a shuddering breath and takes a second to recover.

His hand traces the edge of the lace, closer, closer to her hot center, and then he swipes it aside and hopes - _hopes_ \- that she is wet for him.

 

She’s not wet.

 

  
She’s fucking drenched.

 

The tiny undergarments are soaked with her juices, her sex already swollen and ready for him, anticipating his touch. He moans against her neck as he slides his fingers through the slick folds, remembering how good she tastes, smells, feels, and oh god, he just wants to be in her so bad.

She arches against him when his fingers stall to rub purposefully against her clit, hips thrusting toward him a little, but he wants to give her more - if he’s going to finger her in the hallway he's going to make damn sure it’s worth their while.

He grabs her lacy undergarment and slides it quickly down and off, shoving it in his pocket because he's a lecherous bastard and decides it's his gift to keep.

Her shoes are fucking amazing. Tall heels that almost put her on eye level with him, adorned with diamonds that wrap intricately up and around her ankles. They’re sexy and he wants to fuck her in them - in _just_ them. And maybe those lacy undergarments.

He slides both hands under her dress on his way back up, his left headed for her center while he strokes his right up the outside of her thigh and hooks her knee under his elbow, pulling her leg up through the slit and spreading her open to him. She’s stretched up on her other foot, and he knows this position will be tricky for her in these shoes, but he also knows it’s going to give her the best sensation, so she can tough it out.

 

He slips his digits over her, circling and smoothing through her folds, rubbing at her clit and then stroking down to her opening. He pulls his face back to watch hers, catching her watching his hand as he slides his middle finger all the way in. Her body shudders, pretty red lips dropping open as a few panting breaths escape her. He thrusts the finger slowly, finding her more than ready but he’s got to ramp her up, get her close before he can do what he needs to do. Her head is still dropped down, watching his finger disappear into her, and he fucking loves that she’s watching this - it makes him so hot for her. He leans forward and whispers to her, “Does that feel good, darling?” she nods without looking up, so he asks, “Would you like another?”

She nods again, her breath shaking, dark eyes still staring at his ministrations, and he says, “You can have another if you answer me this,” her head comes up - heated, lust-filled eyes finding his.

His finger continues to fuck her slowly as she considers, so he sweetens the pot, slips that second finger into her unexpectedly in a deep, long thrust and her hips snap against him in pleasure, her mouth opening in a hoarse “Ohhh” as he does it. He gives her three deep strokes like this and then goes back to one finger, and she groans at the loss and concedes with a breathy and slightly annoyed, “Alright, Thief, alright.”

He slows the speed of his lone, thick finger and asks her his first question, an easy one, “Did you like the horse?”

His finger slides slowly in… out… in… out… as she forms her answer. She looks like she’s about to say more, lot’s more, sentiment showing in her eyes, but she only gives him a soft, “Yes.”

 

That's good enough for him - he eagerly adds the second finger.

 

She sucks in a quick breath as he gives her a few long, deep, thrusts with his hand, rewarding her for her cooperation. He’s so hard it hurts.

He tries a few different angles until he finds that spot that has her breath catching, hips jutting up and chasing his fingers as he drives them in and out. She’s soaking his hand, his palm is covered with her hot, slick, need, and he loves it - wants to taste her, wants to fuck her, but he’ll wait, he’ll wait. He’s got to get this right. He speeds his hand for several thrusts and then stops. She whines out a soft protest and when he says, “Next question?” she nods immediately.

“Do you love Roland, still want to see him?” he says softly, and it doesn’t feel right to thrust inside of her for this question, so he holds his fingers still as he kisses her cheek, her ear, her jaw.

She tenses a little but whispers quietly, “Of course I do,” and he pulls his head back to smile at her, so, so proud of how vulnerable she’s letting herself be with him.

He kisses her throat, runs his tongue down it and starts up his hand again, slowly at first, then building, building to bring her back to where she was.

“Fuck you’re tight,” he murmurs into her neck, fingers driving quick-quick-quick in his excitement, “You’re going to have to stretch around my cock, going to be spread wide when I slide into you for the first time,” she shudders against him, her back arching as her hips thrust against his hand. “Do you want me to rub your clit?” he asks, “Want me to circle it and slide around and around it until you come on my fingers?” he licks up the side of her neck and nips her earlobe. She nods to him, a little moan escaping her lips before she can stop it, and he smiles softly at her, loves it when she’s needy for him.

“Last question,” he breathes, and this is it, this is the big one - “What the fuck is wrong with my tattoo?” he asks, and he works his fingers harder, deeper into her, his palm slapping against her clit with each thrust - he’s got to keep her up here, needy and out of control - or he knows she won’t answer him.

Her head drops back and she’s breathing heavily, panting, her hands pressed flat against the wall next to her hips. He stops thrusting and grinds his palm against her clit, hiking her leg that’s draped over his elbow up higher, opening her further, exposing her sex to him a little more.

“Tell me,” he demands, his palm pressing, rubbing her sensitive nub.

Her mouth moves but no words come out, just soft little high pitched panting breaths, her hips circling against his hand.

He switches back to thrusting, going at her vigorously now, moving the angle so that it has her bucking up, one of her hands coming up to wrap around the back of his neck to save her balance.

She’s so close - he can feel her inner muscles so, so, so fucking tight around him, little flutters starting, and he presses her again, looks her right in the eyes and says, “Regina, tell me.”

A little sob escapes her, her eyes fearful and pleading, so he adds, “If it's the difference in being with you or not, I will cut it off my fucking arm to have you Regina, I will do whatever you want, you need only ask.”

She gasps out, breaking, confesses, “Tinker Bell once showed me that the man I was destined to be with,” she moans _oh god_ as his fingers increase speed, pounding into her, “had-” she moans again _right there - don’t stop_ \- “a lion tattoo - y-your tattoo.”

 

_Christ._

 

Fairy magic. He knows about this, has heard tales of it.

 

She’s his fucking soulmate.

 

Bloody hell.

 

He slams his lips against hers, shoves his tongue into her open, needy mouth and kisses her with everything he’s got.

She's desperate against him, her lips fighting for dominance, her teeth nipping his lips as her tongue strokes along his.

He pulls back from her, the wrist that's working her is aching but he won't stop, works her harder, faster still, wet squelching sounds and her heady moans filling the hallway, and they're fucked if someone comes down here, if someone listens too closely as they pass down the adjoining corridor, but he doesn't care. He's breathing heavily, gritting his teeth with want for her - he’s got her there, she just needs one last little push, so he puts his lips against her ear and says, “Tell me you want _us,_ Regina - **_Tell me_**.”

She sobs out a high pitched, “Yes OK?!  _Yes_ \- I want it, Robin,  _I want it - oh god_ ,” as he drops his mouth to her pulse-point and sucks _hard,_ officially marking her as his.

And then she _shatters_ \- comes-a-fucking-part on his hand, her hips bucking against him wildly, her loud cries of rapture echoing in the hallway, her pleasure rushing out of her and making her more slick, so wet, so hot for him and his poor cock, it’s not getting any of this once again, but it’s what she needs, what she deserves, and he kisses her and kisses her as his fingers slow a little but keep pressing against her sensitive spot, against her throbbing clit, until her hand comes over and grasps his wrist, finally bringing him to a stop.

 

He rubs the bridge of his nose against hers, gives her another, deep kiss, dragging his teeth across her lower lip, his tongue and teeth stealing the last of that bright red lipstick from her gorgeous plump lips, and then he drops to his knees before her, sliding the leg he’s holding over his shoulder as he dives in and cleans up the mess he made.

He’s just a man and he can’t help it - he needs his fucking mouth on her. She’s amazing and perfect and apparently his soulmate, and she feels so good against his tongue as he slides it through her swollen folds, lapping at her, sucking on her wet lips and leaving hot kisses against her.

He’s on borrowed time, because he knows, he _knows_ \- when she comes down from this high, when she thinks about how he’s manipulated her into her admission - she’s going to kill him.

But at least now he’ll die knowing what the bloody hell happened.

He keeps at her for several minutes, his knees protesting the stone floor but his hands, his lips are in heaven as he caresses her heated flesh. He runs his hands all over her, whatever he can reach - the curves of her arse, backs of her thighs, down her legs and back up to her mound. His mouth is busy, kissing everything he can, trailing his saliva across her inner thighs, her swollen, sensitive center, her hip bones. It is only when her legs stop trembling and he feels her hand brush through his hair that he pulls away from her, standing and wiping his chin on the sleeve of his shirt.

He leans into her, his hands framing her face as he captures her lips in a sweet kiss, sipping at her lips and dipping his tongue shallowly into her, letting her taste herself in his mouth. Her hands grip tightly at his waist, keeping him close, her fingers kneading into the fabric of his tunic, and then suddenly someone is calling out to them, to her.

 

“Your Majesty, is everything all right?” A man's voice asks, and she pulls her head sharply away from Robin, flicks her hand in the general direction of the voice and Robin hears the crashing of metal as she sends the poor bastard flying. Then she dives in again to take Robin's lips back between her own.

She kisses him thoroughly, her hands sliding up and across his back, down to squeeze his arse and then she slips one around the front to his painfully hard, fully clothed erection. She rubs him expertly, squeezing her hand over him and breaking the kiss to drop her forehead to his, watching her own hand as she moves it teasingly against him.

He's too turned on to say anything, can't believe his dumb luck that she's touching him back, that she's kissed him and has her pretty hands against his cock. She’s looking at herself touching him, rubbing him, and she has this expression of pure _want_ on her face. But then she slides her hands up, up to his chest, kisses, nips his lips quickly one more time, and then she shoves him **hard** _._

He's not expecting it at all and she's strong, really strong, and it legitimately sends him flying across the hall and onto his arse.

 

And oh, she is so, _so_ angry.

 

She glowers down at him, flames licking her palm, all the love and pleasure suddenly erased from her face, replaced with pure, unadulterated fury.

He looks at the threatening magic in her hand and doesn’t believe for a second she will use it on him. And he can't help it, he's always saying stupid things to her, so from his position on the floor he grinds out, “Damnit Regina, I'm not afraid of you!” slamming one fist against the stone in his frustration.

She takes one menacing step toward him, raises her hand and glares him down, “You should be.”

But she pivots sharply and starts off down the hallway, and he is such a fucking idiot, just cannot seem to shut his mouth because he calls after her, taunting, “Where I come from a simple thank you would suffice!”

She doesn't bother to even turn her head as she snaps back, “Where you come from people bathe in the river and use pine cones for money.”

So he throws in the towel for today and drives the nail the rest of the way in, chuckling, “Well, I'm grateful to provide the assistance anyway!” and watches like a complete buffoon as she turns the corridor and sends six guards to drag him, laughing, back down to the dungeon.

 

 


	15. The Ride

 

 

Chapter Fourteen - The Ride

 

 

He’s out of the dungeon again by the early morning hours, well before daylight, _as he should be_ , since he **is** technically a professional rogue. Robin has never encountered a jail cell that he could not break out of. And it hasn’t escaped his notice that Regina’s not using her magic to keep him in, so he figures she keeps tossing him in there to buy herself some time - the fact that it annoys him is likely just a perk.

He kind of likes that about her, though. She’s always throwing up these little hurdles, making him take the long way ‘round, and while that might be tedious to some, to him it’s almost the way she shows she cares. Because she has to put effort into it - if she didn’t care she wouldn’t bother.

He seeks out Roland and discovers that she’s set him up in a room just down the hall from her. He attempts to visit his boy, slips the door open silently and nearly steps into the dimly lit bedchamber but he pulls up short.

She is tucked in bed with him - the two of them fast asleep, cuddled up together in the deep blankets. Roland’s arms are tight around her as they sleep peacefully; he’s holding a tiny fistful of Regina’s soft, dark hair, and her beautiful face is tipped toward his son’s as if she fell asleep gazing at him.

There is something about having the woman he’s in love with be just as in love with his child that wrecks his whole heart in the best of ways.

His chest aches, throbs with how much he cares for them both, and it tries to pull him into the room, but his brain, thankfully, interferes - not yet, he cannot do that yet. She’s not ready, and he doesn’t want to ruin the sweet moment she has with his boy. So he takes one last, longing look and slips out of the room, heads down to the kitchen to pilfer some food and get ready for his next move.

 

* * *

 

The weather is beautiful today, sunny and unusually warm for early winter, and he discovers she’s going riding this afternoon.

He decides to let her get her ride in first, get some of that stress out before he tries again, so he watches from a small outbuilding as she rides out of the royal stables atop Cervantes, his custom gear gleaming in the sunshine and the beautifully poised queen tall in the saddle. She’s wearing black leather pants and knee high boots today, and a low cut red and black riding jacket, complete with a large black hat that has a long feather sticking out the back.

His mouth runs dry.

The woman certainly knows how to dress.

His heart stutters with happiness as she kicks the champion into a gallop and he positively flies across the open field, his stride powerful and sure under her command. She is stunning, radiant, leaning forward in the saddle, her dark hair and the long tails of her red jacket streaming behind her as she moves athletically with the horse, and he swears he hears the echo of her joyous laughter before she is quickly out of Robin’s line of sight.

He smiles as he watches her go - even if she tells him to fuck off today, he can at least go back to Sherwood knowing he did _something_ right.

Because it is obvious that she absolutely loves that horse.

 

* * *

 

She’s gone for a few hours, and Robin is glad for her - that she can relax and bond with her new mount, enjoy the beautiful weather and not have to worry about being queen for a while. When she returns he can see that she is relaxed, her shoulders have lost their sharpness, her features look soft and she is kind and welcoming to the young stable boys who are polishing tack outside the large barn.

He’s already inside, waiting for her, but he smiles a little as he overhears her give praise to the young lads, doting on each by name - can hear their sheepish _Thank you, Your Majesty_ ’s and silly banter with each other as she continues along into the stable.

So it was _love_ that he’d had to buy out from the young boy who’d helped him - no wonder it had cost him so much coin.

She rides Cervantes right into his stall before hopping down, stroking lovingly down his neck and giving him several pats as she speaks softly to him, pulling a few treats from a nearby sack. The big horse eagerly snaps them up, and she makes short, practiced work of ridding him of his tack. He watches her brush him out, working lovingly where the saddle may have rubbed, checking him all over to make sure he is perfect and whole, and the entire process just kind of soothes Robin’s soul.

 

How anyone could have ever given her the moniker of “Evil” is completely beyond him.

 

So he casually steps out from an adjacent stall, and tells her that.

Her body tenses at his voice, but she continues her work with her back to him as she gathers hay and grain and checks the water level in the trough.

As she works she says quietly, seriously, “Evil doesn’t always look evil. Sometimes it’s staring right at us and we don’t even realize it.”

He steps toward her, “And sometimes people are just plain wrong.”

She turns to him, and he can see that her lipstick matches the exact shade of her jacket, the deep vee and tightness of the garment pushes her chest up a little, not explicit but just _fucking sexy_. He tries to keep his eyes off her tits but he’s not sure whether her lips or her chest or her legs in those tight pants turns him on more, so he’s essentially screwed no matter where he looks. He settles on her eyes, a safer but no less appealing location, and he can tell that she is calmer today, truly calm - not the false mask she has worn on other occasions. And she hasn’t bothered to cover the little love mark he gave her.

This pleases him immensely.

“Robin,” she says, placing her hand on her horse’s withers, leaning into the big animal. “What are you even doing here?”

He takes another slow step toward her. “My mind was in the forest but my heart took me here,” he says, honestly.

She sighs and closes her eyes, tips her head down and looks defeated. When she raises her head, looking up at him from under the brim of her hat with those dark eyes burning, she tells him seriously, calmly, “The woman you think you know, she doesn't exist - that isn’t the real me. This,” she waves her hand around, “the castle, the Black Guard, the countless deaths… _this_ is who I am. The woman you thought you knew was…” she trails off, shakes her head but then picks back up, her voice stronger, “Robin I _am_ the Evil Queen. I am the monster that villagers warn their children about. I have murdered, tortured, caused immeasurable suffering. I should be the last person you want near your son, the last person you want to share your bed with.”

He keeps his voice low and serious, matching her tone and says, "The woman I know is the furthest thing from a monster."

“Then you don’t know me very well,” she bites off, her temper bubbling up.

“Regina I see the way you are, even as ‘The Queen’,” he says, refusing to use the word evil. “I knew who you were the moment I met you, knew your reputation, knew my wife was cut down by the swords of _your_ knights.” She purses her lips. “But I also see the way your household staff dotes on you, the way your guardsmen serve you with unquestionable loyalty. I see the way you care for your animals and children and the way you treat your subjects now - with fairness and prosperity.” She looks away, her eyes red rimmed and shiny, but he drives on, he’s got to get this out. “We all have past sins. But it is what we do with our future that determines who we are.”

He completely understands her concerns - his are the same. How can he be expected to raise a child, be a leader, when he himself is such a poor example of what it means to be a good person?

He takes a deep breath, locks eyes with her, “My past is far from perfect - I am a professional thief who has committed unspeakable, selfish, meaningless acts - for god’s sake when you first met me I was on a quest for murder with my five year old son,” he says, smiles sheepishly, and she laughs softly. “But that does not mean that we cannot be happy, cannot be good to each other, good _for_ each other,” he says, and his voice is low, scratchy, his emotion starting to get the better of him. He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, baring his tattoo to her and says, his voice breaking in the middle, “Regina, you are my future.”

Her voice is thick as her eyes fill with tears she refuses to let come.“My heart is ruined, Robin, you don’t understand.”

“Then we’ll use mine for the both of us,” he says quickly, determinedly.

 

There is a beat of absolute silent, perfect stillness as she stares at him. Then suddenly she is striding toward him, her hands coming up to grasp the lapels of his tunic as she pulls him down to her, her lips pressing hotly to his.

He wraps his arms tightly around her, hugging her to him as she kisses him, her lips just a little bit desperate as she claims his mouth. She kisses him deeply, sliding her tongue into his mouth, tilting her head, pulling him harder against her, and he loves this, loves that she is finally letting herself fall into _him_ , that he’s not chasing her in circles and she’s finally accepting the comfort, the love he’s been trying so desperately to share with her.

She pulls him with her as she walks backwards, her hands falling to grasp the leather of his tunic near his waist, and he moves with her until she bumps into a large, highly polished table upon which various bridles, leads, and other tack are strewn. She pulls him closer, parts only for a second to scoot up to sit on the table, and she spreads her knees so that he can stand between them.

God she’s perfect. Bloody brilliant. He’s so, so, in love with her.

He grips the brim of her hat and pulls it from her, tossing it to the side and immediately runs his hands through her hair, smoothing his thumbs across her forehead and dragging his fingers through the long, thick strands as he presses his mouth to hers. His tongue drives deep into her mouth, licking, probing, thrusting into her and he licks along the roof of her mouth, sucks her bottom lip roughly, letting it slide through his teeth, and then dives back in for more.

She’s so aggressive now, so different than other times this has happened - this time she’s bold, _she’s_ in control of the situation and he’s just along for the ride.

It is - _she is_ \- magnificent.

She moves from his mouth to his jawline, sucking hot kisses into his skin, her fingernails scratching his scalp as she runs her hands through his hair and down the back of his neck. She drags her perfect white teeth along his jaw, and she feels so good - he’s already hard for her, is _always hard for her_ \- and he wants her so badly, wants to be inside of her. His hands are at her waist, squeezing her as her mouth works over him, and he’s dying with the pleasure of her, has been too worked up for her for too long, so he pushes her back a little and recaptures her lips - he can’t get enough of her perfect, luscious lips - will never be able to kiss her too many times.

Her hands are at his neck - he feels the weight of his cloak drop from his shoulders and, _oh fuck yes_ \- they are absolutely doing this.

It’s a flurry then, both pairs of hands working quickly to undo buttons, pull here, slide there, and suddenly she’s got him down to just his trousers, and he’s got her jacket off and the little leather top she’s wearing underneath untied so her entire upper body is exposed to him, and he’s breathing so hard he’s light headed.

She pulls him down to kiss her again, arching up and pressing her bare breasts to his naked chest, and all the air just slides out of his lungs and he can feel his pulse in the tip of his cock. Her nipples are pebbled from the cool air, and he wastes no time in touching them, dropping his head and sucking one into his mouth as his hands massage her pert mounds. She arches her back, gasping loudly, her hands in his hair, pulling him closer to her chest as he strokes his hands from her tits to her gorgeous flat stomach and back up again.

 

This woman’s body is absolutely sinful. It’s completely insane that any woman should look this good, _feel this good_. He’s completely ruined for anyone else. No one will ever compare to her.

 

He rolls her nipple around and around with his tongue, flicking the little bud and applying intense suction, and her head drops back, her hips coming up from the table as she moans, _yes, Robin, oh yes_.

He could stay at her tits all day. They are perfect, the scar she earned on the day they met fully healed and barely visible anymore, and he thinks the slight imperfection makes her breasts even more attractive, more touchable. They are full and round and firm, overflowing his palms with gorgeous, small pink nipples that his tongue circles around and around, and he’s fixated on them, pulls back to watch his hands massage and pinch and play with her. He squeezes the mounds together, seeing her cleavage - _all_ of her cleavage - in person, up close, and he loses a little control, his hips thrusting with the sheer attraction he feels for her. He again thanks every deity above for these perfect tits.

He wants to run his cock through them. Wants to fuck her breasts and come on her chest, watch his come drip off her nipples - maybe she’ll even let him come on her neck, her chin. He groans loudly at the mental image and says _oh fuck, Regina,_ and then he drops his head, his hands still squeezing her breasts tightly together, and he sucks both nipples into his mouth at once.

She releases this high pitched little yelp - it is pure, animalistic pleasure - and it immediately makes him smile - he loves that she is sensitive here, plans to spend the rest of his life figuring out how to make her make that fucking sound every single day. He teases both nipples, suckling them simultaneously, then pulling back and lapping at them quickly with his tongue, the tight buds puckered and her hands grasping at his hair, his neck, keeping him steady against her, and he could laugh - _as if he would prefer to be elsewhere_.

His hands relax a little as he brings his thumbs up to swipe rapidly against the little buds, and she makes these high pitched, punctuated _huh-huh-huh_ gasps and _Christ_ , she’s so hot, and he’s so goddamn hard, he can feel the precum seeping into the front of his trousers but he doesn’t give a single fuck. He bends and sucks hard next to one nipple, marking her beautiful skin, and she _ooooo’s_ when he lets the freshly bruised flesh _ >pop< _ from his mouth.

“Robin -” she pants, bringing her hands to his hair and tugging, tearing his eyes from her chest to her face. What’s left of her lipstick is smeared and her chest and cheeks are flushed, gorgeous dark brown eyes dilated with her pleasure and he’s going to come just looking at her if he doesn’t get his shite together fast.

He drops his forehead to her chest, his hands sliding down to her stomach, and he stills for a moment, panting hard, eyes closed, trying to rein himself in a little.

“Robin,” she says again, her hand at the back of his head, and when he looks up she scoots back a little, leaning so she’s propped back on her elbows. She looks him up and down, runs one hand down her body from her elegant neck, down her chest, over a full breast, strokes down her stomach, drops her thighs open even further and says, her voice low, “Fuck me.”

His knees literally go weak, his hands come forward to brace himself above her on the table, and he always thought that that was supposed to happen to women, thought that was _his_ job, but fuck, he can’t help it. She’s Her Royal Highness, Queen of the Enchanted Forest, and even more importantly she’s Regina. _His_ Regina. And she’s touching herself and asking him to… to…

 

Yes. Absolutely yes. Absolutely _fuck yes_.

 

He immediately goes for the waistband of her pants, finding the buttons quickly and flicking them open, grasping the tight clothing right along with her underwear and quickly pulling it down to her boots - he shucks those off her along with her pants and she shrugs out of her open shirt, and then he’s got her naked on the tack table in the stable, and his whole body just fucking **shudders** with his desire for her.

His hot eyes take her in, run the uninterrupted lines of her body and it’s like his brain just gives up, he can’t think, all he can do is _want_ , and then she must take pity on him because she’s sitting up a little with this gorgeous smile as she crooks one finger at him and whispers, “C’mere.”

He has never moved so fast in his life.

He’s back between her thighs and her mouth is against his chest, her fingers dancing across his abs as she softly bites his pec and runs her hands around to his arse. She slides her fingers under the waistband and circles them back around to the front, and she takes a moment and runs her tongue along the lines of his abs that dip down and disappear beneath his trousers.

She drags her teeth across his skin and pulls back from him, lifting her eyes to his as she says, “You are such a beautiful man,” and he scoffs a little - he is _nothing_ compared to her perfection - but she reaches up quickly and grasps his chin, her grip firm as she shakes his head a little, and says, “Now put that big cock inside of me.”

He moans loudly, “ _Fuck, Regina,”_ and then her hands are quickly undoing the ties of his trousers and her delicate hands are on him, pumping him, and he can hardly look at it - he wants to, wants to _so bad_ \- can see her smooth fingers and red nails wrapped around him but he’ll come if he keeps watching, she’s too fucking hot and he’s way too turned on for him to fuck around with watching her wank him right now.

His hands run up her thighs and he feels a little bad about it but he goes straight for her sex and is absolutely relieved to find her swollen and slippery and ready for him. He pulls her forward on the table a little, shifting her arse to the edge, and then he strokes through her slick center. She’s breathing heavily, he wonders if she’s as worked up as he is as he coats the head of his cock with her hot juices. Then he lines up, wraps one arm around her lower back and guides himself into her with the other.

They _both_ moan loudly as he slides in - and he was right, she is _so outrageously tight_ \- he pauses, just breathing, giving her a minute to stretch around him, giving him a minute to _get it together_ , and then her hand at his hip is pulling him closer, her nails digging in a little, and he’s sliding deeper, deeper, until he’s in her to the hilt.

He stills, kisses her lips, sucking at them and licking at her softly, and then he pulls back and drops his gaze, staring at where he disappears into her.

 

_Fuck._

 

_Christ._

 

Huge mistake - big, gigantic mistake - this weird, strangled sound comes out of his chest, his body shaking with the restraint of not thrusting, and he just can’t look away, runs his eyes from where she is impaled on him up to her toned stomach, her lush tits, to her lips, parted softly with her panting breaths, and when his eyes hit hers, it’s all too much, too much - and he feels like such a fucking idiot, because he absolutely _must_ get it together and fuck her the way he’s been dreaming about, the way she’s asking him to, but he’s so enthralled with the image in front of him that he just drops his forehead to hers and gasps out, “Fuck, need a second - you’re just _so_ beautiful.”

She lets out a deep, shaky breath, places her hands on each side of his neck and strokes him soothingly, giving his lips soft, sweet kisses as he calms a little. Her lips move to his chin, his cheek, his brow, the tip of his nose, and then she rubs the bridge of her nose against him, and his whole world feels _perfect._

 

And just like that, he is centered, and he is calm, and he is going to fuck her right into tomorrow.

 

He kisses her lips, slides his hips back a little and gives her a shallow thrust, and she inhales quickly, shifting her hips forward to meet his. He goes again, pulling out further this time, thrusting slowly, he absolutely does not want to hurt her, is aware of his length, his thick girth, and wants to bring only pleasure to her.

He pulls back again, this time slipping out of her entirely and she reaches down for him, guides him back in and he kisses her cheek, her neck in thanks.

He gives her a few more long, careful thrusts, and then he leans back a little, catching her hot eyes with his, and asks her, “Ready for more?”

She rewards him with a devilish smile and says, “ _God Yes._ ”

He grins back at her as he starts to thrust faster, setting a solid, steady pace as his hand drops between them - knows that she will achieve more pleasure if he works her both inside and out.

His thumb finds her clit and she sucks in a quick breath when he begins to rub it, matching the pace with that of his cock, and she immediately lights up for him, her mouth dropping open and breaths speeding up until she is panting, biting her lip and furrowing her brow with pleasure.

He’s fucking her thoroughly, the rhythm he has set not very fast but steady, and he’s restraining himself, pulling back from how hard, how deep his own body wants her, wanting her to spiral up, refusing to let himself fall over the edge before she does.

She leans back against the arm he has at her waist, leaning back, back, and he lowers her gently, until her back is against the table, her arms stretched high above her. He lifts her knees, hooking them under his arms and pulling her sex to him as he thrusts into her, and he hits her deep and she makes this loud, _Ooooo Oooo,_ and he panics a little, stops - worried he’s gone too deep.

She opens her eyes from where she’s lying against the table, eyebrows up in question, but he’s not sure what that sound was, knows she has some sort of awful history with Leopold and he just, he’s not fucking sure. So he looks down at her beautiful face and asks, “OK?”

Her hands scrub over her eyes and thread into her hair as she barks out a throaty laugh, her internal muscles squeezing him, as she says, “It was until you stopped - when are you going to stop teasing me and _start fucking me,_ Thief?”

 

And he falls right off the precipice.

 

He surges forward into her, slamming back inside, hitting her deep, and she makes that noise again, so he says, “Yeah, you like that? You want it deep, Regina?”

She looks him straight in the eyes as she growls back, teeth bared, “More.”

 

Oh, he'll give her more alright.

 

He starts slamming into her roughly, his cock so hot inside her, slippery with the stream of lubrication she is creating for him as he pounds - absolutely fucking pounds - into her, wrapping his hands around her thighs and jerking her hard to him as he thrusts forward, her gorgeous tits bouncing with the force, one of her own hands rubbing her clit as her back arches off the table, breath huffing from her as he slams in again, and again, and again.

She starts moaning as he speeds up, making these hot _ah-ah-ah's_ every time he strokes in, and her nipples are hard as her breasts shake and shimmy with the force, her fingers moving frantically at her sensitive little nub.

And suddenly he’s jealous of that hand - wants it to be _his_ hand - so he wraps his arms more tightly around her, shifting her knees up and over his shoulders - and fuck, god, she’s really fucking flexible - _of course she is_ \- and he swats her hand away, replacing it with his as he leans into her and gives her everything he’s got.

He rubs her clit hard, fast, frantic with the pace of his cock as he drives in deep - his thighs and abs and arse all working hard as he drives into her, again, again, again - and she’s getting louder and commanding him like the fucking queen she is, telling him to go - _deeper_ and _harder_ and give her _more-more-more_ and he hopes those stable boys have finished their tack polishing because otherwise they are getting a bloody good show.

He bends forward further, gets his head low and sucks a nipple into his mouth, let’s it pop back out with a deep, fast thrust, and then he reaches for the back of her neck, pulling her face up to him, her lips a whisper from his, as he says, “Fuck, Regina, you’re so wet you’re dripping, you're fucking gushing,” and she grins at him as he kisses her lips roughly.

He leans back from her, standing to his full height, giving his lower back a little breather as he switches to short, fast, shallow strokes, his thumb still rubbing and sliding against her swollen clit, and he lets her legs slide down to his elbows as he spreads her wide and takes a second to watch his cock, covered in her cream, sliding in and out of her.

He licks his lips, his mouth watering for a taste, but wanting so much to feel her come with his cock absolutely buried in her. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes hooded with desire, her fingernails digging into the table as he rubs her clit, and he can’t help it, he has this burning desire to say filthy things to her. “You like that? Like when my balls slap your arse?” she gasps out, _yes, ohhh yes_ as his thrusts get more punctuated, the sound of his skin slapping against hers echoing across the room. “Gonna fill you with my come - fill you so much you won’t have room for more, gonna make you fucking drip with it, until it pours out of your tight cunt with every step you take.”

He thrusts fast, deep, slamming against her, hard-hard-hard-hard as he rubs her clit roughly, and suddenly her back arches, her head tipping way back and the muscles in her neck strain as she lets out a loud _Oh god, so close, fuck - I’m - I’m - ohhh!_ and she comes around him, her orgasm shuddering through her whole body, and he doubles down on her, his thrusts fast-fast-fast and she’s clenching so tight he’s afraid she’s going to shove him right out, so he makes a point of burying himself in her, jamming himself in so he’s balls deep - but it’s a mistake, because he’s getting the full fucking force of her tremors all around his ultra sensitive cock and suddenly he’s coming too - and he doesn’t know if he’s allowed, doesn’t know if she _actually_ wants him to come inside of her, but as he tries to pull out, she surges up, pulling his upper body down on top of her, nails digging into his shoulders, her hips coming off the table as she locks her legs tight around his waist and works her pelvis against his. His thrusts become uncoordinated, frantic, and he breaks - groaning out his pleasure as he spills, load after load, deep into her, her internal muscles spasming around him and pulling more from him, until finally his thrusts slow and then stop with him still half hard and twitching inside of her, completely drained from the way her internal muscles worked him.

They’re breathing heavily and she’s wrapped tightly around him, her arms and legs locked and he’s so fucking peaceful like this he never wants to move again. She has her face buried in his neck, her nails still digging into him, and he runs his hands over her skin where he can reach her, stroking her, calming both of them with the gentle touch. Her arms finally loosen, her legs shifting a little and letting her arse slip back to the table, and she drops her head back and breathes these big, heaving breaths.

He leans back just a little, wanting to stay inside of her - if he had his way he would never, ever pull out of her - would stay buried inside her sweet body for the rest of his life. He looks at her beautiful face, perfect cheekbones, swollen lips and gorgeous dark eyes and he can’t help but kiss her.

His lips move unhurriedly against hers, sliding softly, his tongue delving in and sweeping against hers, getting a little shock of pleasure when she opens her mouth wider, allowing his tongue to thrust deep, and he almost laughs with the thought, feeling stupid and high from his mind-blowing orgasm as his brain supplies the thought:

 

His Regina, she likes it deep.

 

He pulls back and runs his hands into her hair, letting the black strands slip through as he traces her brow with his thumb, trails it down across her cheekbones and let's it run softly against the mark he left on her neck yesterday.  He loves this, loves that she's wearing the evidence of their time together and hasn't tried to hide it, and he smiles as he shifts up and back from her, starts to pull his still semi-erect cock from her.

He takes another step back to watch himself slip out of her, letting his eyes drop to her swollen sex, then he slides his thumbs against her outer lips and spreads her a little - groans when some of his come seeps out and starts to drip down her.

He looks up and catches her watching him, this hot little smirk on her face as she sits up, slides two fingers along her cleft and then sucks them into her mouth, her eyes looking right into his, a little _mmmm_ eliciting from her throat.

His jaw drops, his breath knocks out of him and he just stares as she sucks her fingers clean. Then she reaches up and pats his cheek, laughing softly as she hops down from the table, gathers her clothes and starts to slip back into them.

He pulls his pants back up, searches around for his clothes and it's like he's in slow motion, she's almost completely dressed now and all he's managed to do is get his shirt over his head. She hands him his tunic and he starts working on that as she slides past him, flipping her hair back and smoothing it as she slips her hat back on.

She turns to him as she heads for the stable door, gives him this brilliant smile as she says, “That's the best ride I've had in years,” and then she winks at him and is through the door and gone - and all he can do is stand there grinning, chuffed to bits and completely in love with her, eyes glued to the confident sway of her hips as she struts off.

 

 


	16. The Job

 

 

Chapter Fifteen - The Job

 

 

Robin spends the rest of the day with Roland as his son takes him all around the castle to his new favorite places. He relishes the time together, loves that his boy feels welcome and comfortable in a place so different from what he is used to. Robin wonders if Roland is truly that adaptable, or if it is because of Regina’s soothing influence on him.

It occurs to him that while Robin has spent the majority of his adult life camping in the forest, he feels relaxed within the halls of Regina’s castle - it is enormously comforting that his son is safe and well-tended, does not have to worry about food, or the cold, or a surprise attack in the dead of night.

He’s starting to question his life choices up to this point, sees that he has come full circle and wonders now if this is something they could do long term. He thinks of Regina’s large bed and wonders if she’d really have him. If she’d share her life with him in that way. It’s one thing to fuck in the stables, the hallway, at camp - it’s another thing to share a room every night, share a whole life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Late in the evening, after he tucks Roland in, he heads up to the castle barricades, leans against the edge as he takes in the dark landscape below him, his thoughts serious, considering this relationship with Regina that his heart seems to want so badly. His head is less convinced - this is nothing like what he knows, nothing like what he experienced with Marian. With Marian it had been easy from the start, he knew he wanted her and that she wanted him. They were young, they never argued, their love was pure and wholesome and fulfilling - until it suddenly wasn’t. And then she was dead and he was broken, and he never thought he’d feel about another woman the way he felt about Marian.

This thing with Regina is completely different. It is so, so much _more._ It is difficult and desperate, imperfect and sometimes twisted, and it’s deep, throbbing, soul shattering need. But it’s also soft glances and soothing strokes, nose rubs and shared breaths, and this absolutely undying want for her - her body, her company - for every part of her. She makes him feel weak for her and at the same time, so strong he can face down any terror. He wants to protect her, would throw down his life and be glad for it, be glad that his son would have her in his place. He has never felt this way about anyone, anything, in his entire life.

He knows it probably has something to do with the fairy magic, but he honestly doesn’t give two fucks about that - they wanted each other, enjoyed each other, loved on each other before they even knew that that was a factor. And that means something to him.

He just doesn’t know what she wants.

He is so confused by her. She fights him at every turn, resists him, won’t let herself give in to temptation without a battle.

And then she let him fuck her, come inside of her, _held him_ inside of her, and he wonders why she would take the risk if she wasn’t serious about him.

The sound of footsteps interrupts his thoughts and he sees two of the castle guards strutting purposefully toward him. He tenses - thought they were over this - doesn’t exactly feel like breaking out of the dungeon again tonight.

They stop several paces from him and one of them barks out, “Your presence is requested in the Great Hall, Robin Hood.”

He shrugs his shoulders and goes with them. He has no idea what it’s about but he’s got nowhere else to be, and perhaps he’ll get another moment with her tonight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There are a lot of people in the hall when he arrives - townspeople, it seems - and he picks out a spot at the back of the room where he can observe but be out of the way. She’s seated in her throne at the front, dressed in a soft-looking royal purple gown with a rather sensible (for her) jeweled neckline, a look of concentration on her pretty face as she speaks to two people who are arguing before her, and he realizes what this is - she’s settling disputes.

Her hair is half up, half down, her face perfectly made up, her queen’s crown atop her head, and she’s adorned with a cape of white fur that drapes down and around her in the throne.

 

Wow.

 

She is all at once beautiful and regal and perfect to him.

 

The proceedings go on for quite some time, and he watches with rapt attention as she works as the monarch of her people, doling out justice and ruling fairness one way or the other, and he’s proud of her. She takes the role seriously, is well practiced at it and knows many of the people by name - needs very few introductions. Her people are nervous but not afraid as they speak with her, and she holds this beautiful, truly majestic presence that seems to calm the entire room.

She finishes another dispute and then an elderly man comes forward by himself. He goes down to one knee in front of her, bowing his head in deep respect as he places a beautiful, ornate longbow on the floor before him. She speaks softly to him, and he raises his head, nodding, smiling at her, and Robin can see that she is smiling gently back.

There are whispers throughout the crowd as this interaction proceeds, but Robin is too far back to hear what is being said. The queen stands from her throne and walks slowly to the old man, lays a hand on his shoulder and kisses the white hair on top of his head, and then the man rises to his feet and exits the hall.

She stands before the longbow and lifts her face to the crowd.

“It seems I am suddenly in need of a Game Warden,” she says with a small smile, and there are quiet chuckles through the crowd. “Is there one among you who is willing and qualified for such an occupation?”

 

Robin’s back straightens.

 

Does she mean-

 

Is she offering -

 

His eyes are glued to her as she makes a good show of looking through the crowd, and when her eyes land knowingly on his, his heart drops into his stomach and he _knows_ deep down in his soul that this is _right_ and this is _true_ and he loves her _so much._

He strides forward quickly, cuts through the crowd and works his way up to her, and she’s smiling broadly at him by the time he gets to the front of the room. He’s grinning too, can’t help it, she’s showing him she wants him to stay, wants him to be with her, and it’s like his whole life has been leading up to this moment.

There is an excited murmur that breaks across the crowd as he appears before them, before her. He hears _Thief_ and _Hood_ flash amongst the whispers and it seems his reputation is larger than he thought.

When he gets to her, he hits his knee immediately, reverently, bows his head deeply to his queen and pays her the respect she is so deserved.

 

A man steps forward, Captain of the Royal Guard, he thinks, and asks him loudly for all to hear, “Robin of Locksley, do you request the occupation of Game Warden to Her Royal Highness, Queen Regina of the Enchanted Forest?”

He brings his head up, looks directly at Regina and replies with gusto, “Absolutely.”

There is a soft laugh from the crowd as he grins openly at her. The Guard Captain picks up the longbow and hands it to the queen, and then she commands Robin to “Stand, Game Warden,” as she hands him the beautiful weapon.

He accepts it enthusiastically, his smile broad and he doesn’t know what comes over him - he knows better, has much better manners than this, could lose his head for it - but some gate inside of him bursts open, and he grabs her around the waist, lifting her into the air and spinning her as his lips press sweetly to hers.

There is a shocked gasp from the crowd, and complete silence falls as Robin sets her down, a look of complete astonishment on her face. He bites his lips - he’s such a fucking idiot and he didn’t mean to do it but it just _happened_ and now he’s panicking and oh god she’s going to kill him - but then she breaks out into a loud, beautiful laugh, and the rest of the room starts to laugh softly, then cheer, as she reaches out to him and rubs the smear of her lipstick from his bottom lip.

 

By god he loves her.

 

Robin steps back quickly and gets back onto his knee, noticing the Guard Captain had drawn his sword and is currently less than pleased with his little flub, but he can’t stop grinning as he licks his lips, tasting her, and holds tight to the bow. The Guard Captain dismisses him and he gets quickly to his feet, gives her another huge smile, and then strides quickly out of the hall.

 

 


	17. The Soul

  (all credit for this beautiful manip goes to the incredibly talented @starscythe)

 

Chapter Sixteen - The Soul 

 

They’ve been in bed - in _her_ bed - for hours.

 

And he’s nowhere near ready to leave it.

 

He crawls across the bed on all fours, feeling predatory, chasing her lips as she scoots back, her naked body sliding smoothly across the silk sheets as he follows her.

He’s hard for her again, and it’s a miracle, because he’s never been hard so many times in such a short period in his life, and it’s not like he’s eighteen anymore. There is just something about her - her mind, her body, her soul that keeps replenishing him, keeps restoring his body so that he can continue to worship her.

Their bodies wear the evidence of their lovemaking, her breasts, neck, inner thighs all thoroughly marked by his lips and tongue, his back marred by the scrape of her nails and his shoulders, his pecs showcase crescent shaped bruises from the bite of her perfect teeth.

He slowly lowers his body over hers, chest to chest, bellies and hips touching as he settles between her thighs, and he props himself up on his elbows so he can stare down into her pretty face.

In all of the realms, she is the most beautiful woman, both inside and out - of this, he is certain.

He runs his fingers lovingly across her forehead, brushing her hair back as she turns her head and presses a kiss to his palm, his wrist.

He smooths his thumb across her lips, and she kisses the pad as he goes, and fuck, he could cry with how much he loves her. He drops his head and kisses her sweetly, caressing her lips with his own, and then he pulls back a little and runs his fingers across her pretty lips again, enamored with them, stalling when he reaches the scar that interrupts her smooth skin. He traces it with his finger, drops his head and kisses it, and he doesn’t ask her but she says softly, “My mother,” and his immediate anger at the injustice makes his eyes water, so he grits his teeth to hold back the emotion, kisses it again and then kisses her lips fully, dipping his tongue into her mouth.

He covers her with sweet kisses, her lips, her chin, her cheekbones and brow, and then he rubs his nose against hers. She sighs softly into him, raises her head to kiss him back, and then strokes her hands soothingly up and down his back.

He works down her chest, determined to show her again, will show her over and over that she is loved, is cherished, is worshiped by him, and he will never, ever let anything like that happen to her again.

He makes his way across her breasts, his lips soft, so soft as he works them over her, does not leave a single inch of her untouched. He presses sweet kisses to the tips of her breasts and she sighs as the little buds tighten, peak under his lips. He lets his tongue drag across one nipple, then the other, and he’s gentle - so gentle, because he’s been working her all night and she’s sensitive everywhere now, but he can’t get enough of her, and he will pleasure her until she asks him to stop.

He circles her pebbled peak with his tongue, around and around, and then sucks it softly into his mouth, suckles her and massages her breast, and suddenly he has this rush of primal maleness and he wants her to bear his children. Wants to watch her belly and breasts grow, watch her birth them and feed them, care for them and cover their little faces with kisses. He imagines the dark features - eyes, hair, that they would inherit from her, and some of his better features, his dimples maybe, and he’s got to ask her about it.

He pulls back from her, kissing the underside of her breast before he slides himself back up to her face.

“I’ve come inside you so many times tonight, darling,” he whispers to her, and a sexy, proud little smile smooths across her features. “Aren’t you concerned that, I mean I know I do but do you want to- what do you think of-” he tries but he feels like he sounds stupid and he can’t seem to finish the sentence.

 

Her whole face falls, and his heart fucking breaks in his chest.

 

“I can’t - I’m not able,” she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

He kisses her softly, looks into her beautiful eyes. “Don’t be sorry, darling, you're perfect. You're so, so perfect,” he stops to kiss her again, “We already have a son, and that is enough for me. Is it enough for you?”

Her eyes are filled with hot tears but she doesn’t let them spill, just nods and kisses him, her fingers pressed tight into his back.

There are not enough days, hours, minutes for him to show her how much he loves her. He wants to make her whole, wants to heal her from the inside out, wants her to know deep down to her core that he loves her unconditionally. But he doesn’t know how to say such a thing, so he returns to her body, kissing her neck, her collarbone, licking and gently sucking his way down her breast. Stops again to suck her nipple into his mouth and flick his tongue against it, swirl around it, and then he continues down to her stomach.

And he hurts for her - wants this for her, wants her to have whatever she wants in life - so he spends some extra time here, running his hands and lips and tongue across her, loving on her perfect flat muscles and silky smooth skin that smells so good.

He continues south, kissing across her from one hip bone to the other, sucking kisses into her mound and then softly slips his tongue through her folds. She’s swollen and sticky from their exuberant lovemaking, so he’s careful with her, wants to get her off one more time tonight because she deserves to feel like the amazing, perfect, beautiful woman she is.

He licks lazily at her, long smooth strokes to sooth and warm her, and he wants to draw everything out to the longest extent, give her the most of everything. Her body relaxes under him, her breathing deep and slow, and if her fingers weren't drifting softly through his hair he'd be a little worried she is asleep. But she's not, just content to let him run his hands all over her, his mouth starting to suck lightly on her clit in between the easy wet strokes he's giving her.

He works her over slowly, feeling her arousal build as she slowly starts to moisten for him. Her flavor is tinted with his own, and he's sure it's a bit of a kink but he really fucking likes that. Likes that she's wearing him on the inside of her - it makes him feel like she truly is his and he is hers.

He slides back onto his knees and let's his fingers stroke through her softly, keeping everything light and gentle. He dips one finger into her, and oh, fuck, she is so swollen and snug on his finger he's not even sure she'll be able to take his cock again, so he strokes her slow and smooth to loosen her up.

 

They we're a bit rough earlier as he'd bent her over the side of the bed, pulling her dark hair back with one hand and slapping that perfect arse hard as he fucked her from behind. It's an image he hopes he never forgets. Her perfect creamy skin turned beautifully red under the smack of his hand as she brought her knees up on the bed until she was on all fours, but she dropped down hard to her elbows as he thrust harder and harder, begging him to get deeper as she rocked her hips forcefully back to meet his deep thrusts. He grasped the globes of her arse roughly as he pistoned into her, watched her fingers twist into the sheets as she arched her back, and he slid his thumbs up and down the cleft of her arse as he fucked into her.

She'd asked him then, asked him if he'd wanted to fuck her there too, and Christ, he'd never been into that - had always been told it was uncomfortable at best for the woman - but she was offering it to him, _anything you want_ , she'd gasped and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered it. He'd pulled out of her hot, wet sex then and run his cock between her cheeks, squeezing them around him, almost dying with the fucking perfect image of it, and it felt fantastic, but he didn't want to attempt something that might hurt her, so instead he told her how tight her cunt was as he slipped back in, how he couldn't possibly think of putting his cock elsewhere and he let his fingers dance and tease her rear opening without ever penetrating her past his first knuckle. If he had his way, there would be plenty of time for experimentation in the years to come, and she really was _so tight_ around him already.

He’d pounded her hard, spouting filthy words to her, telling her over and over how wet she was, how hard she made him, asking if she liked when his balls slapped against her clit as he drove into her. She came outrageously hard on him, her voice hoarse from the cries of pleasure he had pulled from her, and he spread her wide as he continued to fuck her, could actually see the way her sex tightened around him as she clenched and spasmed, and fuck, it was such an erotic sight that it had him coming too, spurting inside of her at first, and then pulling out to paint the cheeks of her arse white with his come.

 

What they're doing now is completely different as his finger slowly slides out of her wetness and spreads it around, her clit already engorged from his mouth. She breathes deeply as he thrusts just the tip back in, getting just a little bit more firm, a little bit faster. He's surprised when she suddenly sits up, shifts to him and wraps her arms around his neck as she brings her face to his. He scoots back and props himself up against the headboard as she climbs on top of him and strokes his cock.

 

He's sensitive now too, but her hands are so soft, making up for the intense pleasure her clever mouth had given him earlier as she'd sucked him deep, taken him way down the back of her throat and kneaded his balls. She'd worked him so good, her hot, wet mouth and gorgeous plump lips wrapped around the head of him as her hand pumped, her tongue twirling and sliding through his slit to lap up his precum. Her mouth, it turned out, was even more talented than her skillful hands, and she'd turned him into a heaving, shuddering mess within minutes of her first lick against him, as she'd hollowed her beautiful cheeks and sucked and swirled over him. And she'd completely done him in when she insisted on him coming right in her mouth, swallowing his hot come down as she stroked his pulsing member, going back in for one last suck, one last taste once he'd been spent.

 

No, this is completely different.

 

She slides her knees wider as she straddles him, positions him and slowly, slowly sinks down. She's so hot and tight and wet and he groans loudly with his pleasure, trying hard not to thrust up into her, wants to give her time to adjust. She makes a few shallow strokes on him as her body acclimates around his thick cock again, and then she sinks right down, biting her lip and watching him disappear inside of her as she takes him all the way to the hilt.

_“Fuck, Regina_ ,” he groans, because she's amazing, and he will never have enough of her, will never not be thankful that she's picked him to be her man.

She sits still on him, leans in and kisses him hotly as she presses her tongue to his lips. He grants her access immediately as he threads his fingers into her raven hair, lifting it up just a little off her neck as his fingers splay through the heavy strands, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, his other hand wrapped tightly around her hip. She kisses and kisses him until they're out of breath, and she hasn't hardly moved but he could come from just this - just being settled deep inside of her as they make love with their mouths.

She starts to ride him, slow and smooth, diving back in for a few kisses as she gains a little speed, her hands clutching his shoulders as he guides her hips and thrusts shallowly up into her.

She runs her hands down the sides of his neck, runs her right hand down and over his beating heart as she rises and sinks, just a little faster now, and he can feel the tingling magic in her fingertips as she presses her hand against him and suddenly, painfully, her hand goes right _through_ him, and she wrenches it back out, his jaw dropping open in shock as she pulls his heart out and inspects it.

She's still riding him, her hips not stopping for a second, and he's not stopping either, he is so hard for her, but he can literally feel her fingertips against his most vital organ as she turns it in her hand, strokes her thumb along the edge, looking it all over.

She rocks her hips faster, starting to bounce on him a little with the speed, and she shows him the black marks that cross his heart, covering about a third of what should be pink. _Darkness_ she whispers, arching a fine eyebrow knowingly at him, and then she shows him the healthy red flesh, kisses his lips quickly and says, _light_.

She leans back a little, rocking against him, still fucking him, taking him in deep as she swivels her hips and slows for a beat, his heart still in her hand, and then he watches, awestruck, as her hand dives into her own chest and rips out her heart.  Her breath rushes out harshly with the pain, her tight channel squeezing him as it washes through her, and she holds her organ up for him to see. Hers is darker, much darker than his, marred with a deep black that covers more than two thirds of the muscle, pink still visible but definitely the minority.

She looks intently at it, and then her eyes raise to his as she hands it to him.

He receives her heart, and it is warm in his palm, the soft beat of it thumping gently against his fingertips as he looks closely at it. He brings his eyes up to hers, so dark with her arousal as she slides up and down his cock, eyes locked on him, and then he brings her heart to his lips and kisses it, whispers, “Regina I love you.”

Her head drops back as she moans loudly into the room, her chest flushing with arousal, nipples tightened to stiff peaks as she bounces, faster, faster on him, and he's given up on restraint, is giving it back to her hard as she rides him. She reaches for his wrist, pulling the hand that has her heart to her as she gasps out, “I love you, Robin, god I love you so, so much,” and then she touches the two muscles together and beautiful, silver magic shimmers out from them. They are a perfect match - his dark aligning with her light, his light with her dark, and he thinks he knows now, knows what the term _soulmate_  means. It pulls him up into this euphoric state - he feels delirious with it - and then she slams their hearts back into their respective chests, and she's coming, and he's coming, and they're both crying out with the emotion and pleasure and pain.

 

* * *

 

  
He awakens in the early morning hours to find that he had fallen asleep still buried inside of her. She's draped across his body, her face tucked into his neck and her arms tight around him as she slumbers - deep, even breaths puffing softly against his clavicle. He is semi-hard inside of her and everything is so sensitive it throbs, he needs to pull out, it's not fair to her to keep up the intrusion, so he rolls them softly to their sides and slides out.

She makes an adorable whine when he does it, cuddling closer to his chest and drawing her knees up a little, so he gets her to turn and spoons her from behind, rubbing soothing touches down her naked side and placing a kiss to the back of her head as he pulls the sheets over them and they settle back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

  
When he wakes again it is late morning, and he's not sure what woke him up - Regina is still snuggled tightly against him, neither having moved since he tucked them in.

And then he hears a sound, the accelerating pitter-patter of small feet and he raises his head just in time to see Roland launch himself into bed with them.

 

Oh god.

 

He clutches the sheets to their necks, one arm tight across Regina to keep her covered as Roland bounces in next to her and kisses her sweetly.

He feels the exact moment she wakes, her body tensing with the awkward situation his son has just thrust them into.

Robin keeps his arm locked on her, if Roland shifts around too much the slippery sheets will do little to save them, and he's not sure what else to do. He opens his mouth to say something, to get Roland out of line of sight so they can scramble for some clothes, but then his son stops him dead as he peers into Regina's face intently and asks softly, “Mama?”

Robin's heart slams against his rib cage, tears prick his eyes and he's frozen - has no idea if he should interfere or not.

Roland always called Marian mum, not mama. So this can only be Roland's own, newly appointed term for his 'Gina.

Regina is still tense against him but he hears her whisper back, “Yes, baby?”

So Roland continues, “Sky's awake, can we have breakfast?”

He feels her relax, knows she's smiling at the boy as she replies, “Yes, sweetheart, of course. Can you be a big boy and run and get dressed? Then we'll go down together.”

“Kay,” he says, kissing her again and hopping off the bed. “Is papa coming too?” He asks as he starts toward the door.

“I'm sure he is,” Regina replies, and Robin can feel the giggle she's trying and failing to tamp down.

Roland keeps on for the door none the wiser, and the second he is gone, they erupt into laughter.

 

Robin squeezes Regina tightly, hugs her close and kisses her shoulder, and she turns in his arms to place a sweet kiss to his lips.

Her eyes are bright with mirth as she grins at him - she is so beautiful - he pulls back a little and says, "There it is, that elusive but satisfying smile I think about every time I close my eyes."

She kisses the tip of his nose and he play bites at her, getting another little laugh from her lips before she goes a bit serious and says honestly, “Thank you, Robin. I never thought I'd have this.”

Robin kisses her hard, pulls her face close to his and strokes her cheek. Then he brushes his nose against hers and says, “Come my darling, our son is waiting.”

 

 


	18. The Epilogue

 

 

Chapter Seventeen - The Epilogue 

  


Despite the cool fall breeze the afternoon sun is warm as it shines down on them, as they sit and watch their son play at the edge of the lake, fighting make-believe monsters with the little wooden sword he totes. Regina is nestled in tight between Robin’s legs, her back pressed comfortably against his chest as she watches the boy play and instructs him how to throw pretend fireballs from his palm.

Robin nuzzles his nose deeper into her long dark hair, the strands tickling a little as he presses a kiss behind her ear, against the corner of her jaw. She _hmmm’s_ a little for him in response, squeezing his knee as he strokes his hands gently along her arms.

He reaches for her hand and runs his fingertips over the wedding band she wears, his fingers ghosting against it and then spinning it around and around as the sunlight catches the diamonds and creates beautiful refractive light patterns on the white sand around them. He pulls her hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it, kisses over top of the ring he gave her and she reaches backward to cup his neck, her fingers trailing sweetly down his cheek.

“I still can’t believe you married me,” he whispers to her, smiling against her temple. It is a conversation they have had before.

She smiles in return, “I can’t believe you wanted to get married - you’d already gotten to have your way with me.” Her tone is teasing, sexy.

“Well I couldn’t very well have you stolen away by some other, more handsome thief,” he quips. “Roland had his eye on you right from the start.”

She _mmm’_ s in agreement. “Who knew the Prince of Thieves had honor?” she says, and he slaps the side of her thigh lightly.

“Who knew the Evil Queen had a soft spot for children?” he returns.

She laughs and turns her head to the side to kiss him, nipping playfully at his lips.

 

“Like this Mama?” their son calls to her, and she turns back to give him her full attention.

 

“Very good, Henry!” she praises, smiling her approval as the little boy comes running, throwing himself at her.

Robin runs his fingers through the dark hair of his youngest son, smiling because he was right - Henry has her raven hair and dark eyes, but his dimples are an exact match to his older brother.

Roland comes bounding over from where he was skipping stones down the long length of the beach, groaning out, “Mama I’m _starving_!” as he too throws himself into her arms.

She snuggles her boys tight and Robin drops a kiss to her shoulder, basking in this perfect moment.

It is because of her, because of this _Evil_ Queen, that his life is meaningful, and it is good, and it is complete.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what'd you think? This is the ending I prefer for them. Long live OQ :)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers:  
> Not mine - if they were, they would do this stuff all the time.  
> As an avid fanfic reader, please understand that any similarities to other works are pure coincidence and absolutely not intended.  
> I don't have a beta, I own up to all the mistakes and will try to correct them when I notice them.


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